


Petrichor

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Consent, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Baggage, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Musical Eskel, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Not Canon Compliant, Polyamory, Shameless Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, The Witcher Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 93,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: “Geralt…? What, by Melitele’s tits, are you doing? The door, man, normal people use a d--... Geralt?” He noticed it now. The feverish sheen on the Witcher’s skin, the alert, skittish look in his eyes and the--. He cleared the distance between them in three strides. Geralt retreated until his back hit the wall with a dull thud, but Jaskier would not be deterred. He shoved his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck and breathed in deeply, his hands gripping the edges of the damp cloak draped over broad shoulders. “You’re…”“I need… need to ask you… for a…” He clenched his teeth, eyes rolling to the ceiling. Two gloved hands lifted to push Jaskier away from his chest; it felt like trying to move a mountain. Not because Jaskier pushed back, but because every fibre of his being wanted to pull the other way. Ask for a what though? ‘Favour’ didn’t quite fit the bill for what he was about to request, and so he stared at Jaskier with those intense golden eyes, while mentally scrambling for a coherent explanation amidst the brain fog.Geralt and Jaskier get together, fall in love with Eskel, and learn that it's all right to want (and let themselves have) things.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1294
Kudos: 2056
Collections: Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother)





	1. Denial

* * *

“Have fun at Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt stared at Jaskier in his usual deadpan way. “It was cold.”

“Ah, of course, it was. It is every year. Well, I had an absolutely fantastic winter at Oxenfurt. You'll never guess what happened when Countess de Stael visited--.”

The Witcher phased out, content. Jaskier’s voice became a pleasant hum at the back of his consciousness as his attention passed from ale to tavern patrons, and then back again. He occasionally grunted to convince the bard he was still fully attending to the conversation when, in reality, he was replenishing his mind’s vision of Jaskier. The image had faded in the darkness of winter, and it needed to be recoloured with all of the bard’s splendour. The bright, toothy smile and the charming flutter of his cornflower blue eyes spread tendrils of warmth through Geralt’s chest, and he fell easily - willingly - into their familiar stride.

It - this odd _thing_ they had - would continue this way until the leaves wilted and the first snowflakes began to fall; Jaskier would cheerily wave him off for another winter, assured that they would be reunited by mid-spring and their adventures would start anew. Until then, the bard would talk, sing, find trouble, fall into holes and pits that seemed designed especially for him, get chased by monsters and villagers alike and each time Geralt would pluck him from the jaws of doom (or castration) in the knick of time. He wouldn’t have it any other way. The sight of Jaskier sprawled at a bar, surrounded by revellers lapping up last season’s stories, was like stepping in from a storm. Every year the sensation of relief that flooded Geralt’s heart and soul seemed to grow stronger and poked the monster coiled deep inside his chest. The monster that ached and yearned a bit harder, and a bit deeper, every spring.

And that was why they had to spend winter and early spring apart. As the snows melted and the first green buds nosed their way through the soil and from bark, Geralt went into heat. It began as a constant pressure at the base of his spine, and that was his prompt to leave the safety of Kaer Morhen and head into the wilderness until it ended. No one should have to deal with his _affliction_. Not the other Witchers, and certainly not Jaskier.

Eskel had told him once that the scent was as beautiful as the first rains after a drought; petrichor, he called it. It was meant to be a gentle compliment. Ichor was the blood of the Gods, and petra meant ‘stone’ in a long-forgotten language. It emanated from Geralt every springtime, rich and alluring. When they were still training and becoming men together, Eskel offered to help; to relieve the pain and the fear of it, wrapped in the warm blankets of his bunk and comforted by tender caresses. Eskel was filling out as an alpha, but Geralt was presenting as something entirely _different_ and, amongst the agony of the mutations, it had been yet another harrowing experience in a litany of them. A young man, Eskel tentatively, _awkwardly_ , propositioned Geralt one evening in the library, with only the two of them present. “Let me mark you as mine. Knot with you. It will… it will feel good, and then you don’t have to be in pain anymore. It’s… it’s fine, Geralt. You don’t need to be scared of it. You know I won’t hurt you.”

Geralt had viciously rejected him, ripped chunks out of his chest, to prove that he wasn’t _that_ and he didn’t _need_ what was being offered. He, not a monster, had given Eskel his first scars; Vesemir stopped the fight and beat them both for their loss of control. Eskel never offered again. He watched as Geralt worked, fought and trained harder than anyone else. Proving that he was just as good - better even - than the others. When he came out of the additional trials with a shock of white hair, he finally had the physical proof he yearned for. _Stronger. Better._

_And yet._

He remained ashamed. Ashamed of his difference. Ashamed at what he perceived as yet another fault that destiny had branded him with. He was sterile and could not fulfil the role that nature had bestowed on him, yet he craved fulfilment and suffered every year when he did not get it. Or, as Eskel pointed out as gently as he could, did not _allow_ himself to have it. Not then, not now and not _ever._ Instead, he hid behind the Witcher’s reputation of heartless indifference and fortified his heart with it just as he hid in the wilderness until the pain and the yearning went away.

When Geralt caught the scent on Jaskier the first time he had thrown himself down on the tavern bench, it had been as brutal as a knife in the chest. Not fear of being attacked - that was laughable, really, Jaskier had the same physical density as the songbird he imitated so well - but fear of the instinctive response deep inside his own gut. An alpha. Human. No heightened sense of smell. He couldn’t possibly have scented _it_ beneath the weeks of road dirt and viscera that contaminated Geralt’s clothes and skin. Geralt’s profession held his interest, his quiet, brooding glare… not _that_. And no matter how hard Geralt shoved him, how viciously he berated or insulted him, Jaskier stayed at his side from then on. Always held subtly at a distance, even though that distance seemed to shrink every year. And every spring, without Jaskier there, his heat felt worse.

“So, Geralt. What do you think? Terrible ordeal, really. But I was well within my rights t--, and you haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said, have you?” Geralt had the good grace to look moderately apologetic, and Jaskier sighed. “Well, if it were anyone else, I would take sincere offence… you’re lucky I adore you.” 

_Please don’t say that._ “Hmm.”

“Well, where we heading?”

“Brugge, and then east towards Rivia.”

“Rivia? Excellent. A wealth of Geralt-positive stories, no doubt. Come on then. To Roach!”

* * *

Another year passed, and Jaskier just fell more in love. 

The summer nights they spent sprawled around a campfire were the ones he treasured the most. Once Roach was fed, the food was cooked, and his weapons and armour were cleaned and honed, Geralt liked to stretch out on his bedroll and watch the stars. And Jaskier liked to watch Geralt. Highlighted in flickering firelight, he appeared almost ethereal in nature, the orange of the flames turning yellow eyes into molten gold and flushing his face, neck and exposed chest a light pink. Tucked under the scratchy woollen blanket Geralt carried especially for him, the bard watched his Witcher every night until sleep washed over him.

He had grown used to the longing. In the first few years had been almost unbearable; a gnawing, relentless pain in his chest that dogged his waking moments and even, on the odd, especially frustrating occasion, his sleeping ones too. When Jaskier helped with injuries, bathed him when he couldn’t quite reach that last entrail, washed his clothes… Geralt remained guarded as if he feared the proximity and intimacy. He rejected Jaskier’s flirtations and _even_ bedded a damn sorceress - as if to prove a bloody point - and so the bard contented himself with other pretty faces, dreamed about what _could have been_ and cherished every moment on the road at Geralt’s side.

Through small acts, Geralt rewarded Jaskier’s loyalty and displayed his affection. Everything from that woollen blanket, to the careful way he plotted stops in taverns and inns to allow Jaskier to sing and recuperate and the soft conversations they held by moonlight. The Witcher loved him in his own way; Jaskier was certain of it.

* * *

The following spring, it wasn't good. Worse than anything Geralt had ever experienced before. Eskel tried to reason with him, to convince him to stay until he was safe and stable, even through the smog of his own needs responding to Geralt’s building fervour. The White Wolf snarled at him in a warning and sent him packing with a scathing dismissal that he would regret until he could apologise next winter.

He left Kaer Morhen in a daze and stumbled south, sometimes on Roach’s back, and other times with her following loyally behind; he forgot even to hold her bridle or reins. As night fell, he wrapped himself in his cloak and shivered, unable to muster the coordination to start a fire, his hands fumbling equally with flint as they did with trying to form the sign for igni. 

By some miracle, he found the Pontar and managed to follow it west. It should be over by now. He should be returning to normal, but it was just growing, _spreading_. His mouth felt dry no matter how much water he drank, his hands shook, and he was simultaneously cold and burning hot. The pressure in his back, his stomach, his _groin_ was beyond anything he had ever endured. And yet, through it all, he could think of only one thing. _Jaskier._

A small voice in the back of his head screamed at him in mortification. It oscillated between calling him a weak, worthless piece of shit and reminding him that Jaskier would probably kick him to the curb in disgust. Who would want a sterile, worthless, filthy Witcher? Who would willingly debase themselves, free of charge, without the influence of a djinn’s magic? No ulterior motive, nothing in it for them. _No one_ , the savage voice informed him, _and certainly not Jaskier…_ Jaskier who could have any pretty face he wanted on the entire Continent. 

Geralt hid in the outskirts of Rinde - “White Orchard is so _boring_ , Geralt, we should meet in Rinde next spring” - and waited. When Jaskier’s familiar figure appeared between two outbuildings, Geralt had to bite down on his wrist to prevent himself from rushing out and fawning immediately at his feet. He watched. He waited a bit longer.

Jaskier rented a room and an hour passed before he appeared briefly in a window framed by linen curtains. It was late. The tavern's noise was subsiding to a low, sleepy hum; no one was awake or sober enough to appreciate Jaskier’s songs now. Geralt left Roach safely in the stable, managing to pay somehow the stableboy who looked at him with a mystified gaze. He didn’t use the front door - _too risky, too many eyes -_ and scaled the gutter to Jaskier’s window. Finesse and grace a distant memory, Jaskier was already looking at him when he pulled himself over the sill and staggered against the dresser he found to the right of it.

“Geralt -? What, by Melitele’s tits, are you doing? The door, man, normal people use a d- - _Geralt?”_ He noticed it now. The feverish sheen on the Witcher’s skin, the alert, skittish look in his eyes and the… he cleared the distance between them in three strides. Geralt retreated until his back hit the wall with a dull thud, but Jaskier would not be deterred. He shoved his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck and breathed in deeply, his hands gripping the edges of the damp cloak draped over broad shoulders. “You’re…”

“I need… need to ask you… for a…” He clenched his teeth, eyes rolling to the ceiling. Two gloved hands lifted to push Jaskier away from his chest; it felt like trying to move a mountain. Not because Jaskier pushed back, but because every fibre of his being wanted to _pull_ the other way. _Ask for a what though?_ ‘Favour’ didn’t quite fit the bill for what he was about to request, and so he stared at Jaskier with those intense golden eyes, while mentally scrambling for a coherent explanation amidst the brain fog.

Jaskier watched his friend struggle and stutter, and his heart broke. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place around that scent as his mind ran back over all of their previous reunions; Geralt had always appeared thinner and paler than when they parted in autumn. There were always shadows under his eyes and hollows to his cheeks. Jaskier had passed it off as winter scarcity and ensured his Witcher ate voraciously the entire time they were together. He always maintained a certain distance and preferred the cold to sharing Jaskier’s blanket or bedroll when they slept in the wilderness; even humans, with their stunted senses, could smell an omega if their face was buried against their skin.

Of course, Geralt would hide something like this. He would rather starve and suffer in the wilderness than acknowledge his needs. Jaskier knew his Witcher well enough now; he viewed this as an unforgivable weakness, a flaw, rather than a natural part of his life. Asking him to verbalise what he needed would be too much; the shame and humiliation rolled off him in waves.

Mouth dry, Jaskier cleared his throat and stepped back. ”Get undressed and into that bath,” he indicated the tub he had summoned for himself. “Do _not_ argue with me.”

Geralt pulled his cloak, armour and clothes away as if he were drunk; his urgency to obey made him haphazard, and he fumbled with the clasps of his sword belt. His trousers were damp with slick, and as a result, his thighs' skin was chafed from walking and riding for days. Jaskier pulled the window closed as Geralt clambered into the scalding water and sank into it with a grateful groan. The heat relieved the tension in his back and soothed the rawness between his legs. It wasn’t _close_ to enough, but he stopped shaking. 

Jaskier knew what Geralt needed. Omegas were rare - a treasure - and he had encountered only one other. A young woman in his youth who had been truly, staggeringly enchanting. He stayed with her through her first heat, but there had been no attempt to possess. She was betrothed. He had been there, young and fool-hardy, to cherish and fawn over her in her time of need and then quite easily discarded. But even she, with her auburn hair and eyes of emerald green, didn’t hold a candle to Geralt. With his eyes of golden ichor, his snowy white mane and broad, powerful frame that now hunched in shame as he dropped his arms into the water.

Jaskier crouched down behind his Witcher, careful to move slowly and deliberately, he lifted his hands and ran them across tense shoulders. The gasp such an innocent contact received tightened the pressure in Jaskier’s groin; he leaned close to his neck again and breathed deeply of the heady scent that seeped from Geralt’s every pore. “Why, Geralt? Why hide this from me?” 

Geralt’s jaw was twitching from where he had clamped his mouth shut, and Jaskier stroked a palm up to his neck and insisted he leaned his head back to his shoulder. The brush of his finger had the desired effect, and the tension in Geralt’s jaw slackened. When he spoke, his voice rasped like sandpaper. “It’s not... right. I cannot be this... _weak_.”

Was it possible for a man to shatter from words alone? Jaskier felt like he had. The arm that draped over the front of Geralt’s shoulders and collarbone tightened. “It’s not a weakness. It is the most beautiful thing in the world,” he refused to allow Geralt to tilt his head away, and tenderly stroked the arch of his throat through the bitter laugh that rumbled from it. “And why, in Freya’s name, did you leave Kaer Morhen and travel all the way here? Surely it would have been safer to stay… perhaps even one of the other Witchers…?”

Geralt grunted, frustrated and appalled. “ _No._ It has to be you - it’s _always_ been you.” He managed to grate out, trying to ignore the way his body sang with Jaskier so close. _He will say no._

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat, and he allowed himself a moment of weakness. Head cocked to the side, he pressed his lips to the side of Geralt’s neck, and the Witcher kicked a foot against the edge of the tub as if they burned like a brand. The swollen head of his arousal peaked above the water, and Jaskier bit down on the inside of his own cheek to maintain his control. There could be only one reason Geralt would travel so far in this state, resist or fight any other potential suitor that would provide him relief… “You want me to claim you, don’t you?” His own voice sounded hoarse now.

“ _Yes,_ ” Barely a whisper. The fear of rejection and desperate need hummed from every inch of the man in Jaskier’s arms. “Please, Jaskier. I feel like I’m _burning._ ”

“I'll bathe you, Geralt. And then I'll take you to bed. Tomorrow, when you are calmer and fed, we'll talk about this again. You're tired, cold, hungry. It's making you feel… desperate. If I'm to claim you as mine, then I… it needs to be something special. You deserve that.” 

Jaskier brooked no argument, even when Geralt leaned forward in the bath and covered his face with two broad palms. To see Geralt so raw generated an odd mixture of feelings. There were the ones created by that scent - protective, possessive, arousal - and those created by their years' long friendship that overpowered them - concern, love, loyalty. The bard washed his Witcher tenderly, and when the water was murky with sweat and dirt, he dried him and pushed him down onto the bed for an equally gentle kiss that made Geralt quake.

Tucked under the blankets, Jaskier held Geralt to his chest, tucking his head under his chin. With his Witcher pressed this close, the smell of his heat was unmistakable, and Jaskier had to take several deep breaths to steady himself. _Geralt_ was worth more than a mindless rut when he was weak and vulnerable; he needed to feel powerful, beautiful and treasured. This was the mantra that Jaskier would repeat in his head all night, even as the tightness in the pit of his stomach began to build. Said omega gripped Jaskier's bicep and pressed himself as close as he could as if he were trying to climb into the bard's skin. "Hush, I have you. Sleep." 

Exhaustion won out over the pain. Warm and wrapped in Jaskier's arms, Geralt fell into a fitful slumber.


	2. Acceptance (E)

"How're you feeling?" Jaskier poured some of the tea provided by the innkeep, and pushed it across the table. He hadn't allowed anyone in the room, not even the lady of the house to clear the bath water. Breakfast had been plentiful and Jaskier ensured Geralt ate the majority. The colour returned to his face and the fevered haze disappeared from his eyes.

"Better." Voice like tumbling rock, Geralt picked up the cup and knocked it back without so much as a grimace. Jaskier did it for him.

"You look a bit more like yourself."

Geralt shot him an irritable glance and tugged at his shirt. The material felt rough on his skin and, even though they sat next to an open window and the fresh morning air flooded in, he was hot and claustrophobic. "Jaskier, I'm…" He couldn't look up from the table, "...I _am_ sorry. I shouldn't have left the forests until it finished. It usually only needs a few weeks of isolation."

"The forests? Isolation?" Jaskier whispered, incredulous. "You mean to tell me that, every year, you sleep out in the open, _on your own,_ feeling like this?" He gripped his own knee to stem his outrage. "No wonder you look skeletal when we meet every year. You must… how…" 

The Witcher clenched his fist on the table and Jaskier trailed off. He could see it written in every tight muscle, in the thin line of his lips and the tilt of his head away. _That shame._ The bard stood and Geralt looked up, still skittish, but his amber eyes flickered closed with pleasure when Jaskier's hands stroked down his jaw and neck. 

"You've hidden a part of yourself for so long, but you've come here to show it to me." 

"Yes."

"Tell me why, Geralt."

"Because I…" He growled, focusing on the play of fingertips across the arch of his ear and the palm stroking his shoulders to steel himself, before he did his best to gather a coherent explanation together from the scattered segments of his mind. "I'm empty without you. Being with you is like… the warmth of a campfire in the cold. The taste of fresh bread after a week of starving. I can't… I'm not a poet like you… I don't have the words..." Another frustrated snarl and he hammered a closed fist on the surface of the table. _Useless, fucking piece of…_ “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier smiled gently, shushed that anger away and stroked his thumbs over Geralt’s tense brow. His own heart was beating a neat rhythm against his chest as his Witcher tripped over his confession, and then apologised. Beautiful golden eyes glittered up at him as he replied. "Don't apologise. I love you. I've loved you all these years, and I'll continue to love you until the day I die. You don't have to hide from me. I've been yours since I first caught your eye across that tavern. Will you be mine, Geralt?"

Geralt surged up from his seat and captured Jaskier's mouth in a fierce kiss that tasted of tea, honey and heat. The bard tugged him back towards the bed; they parted only long enough to shed their shirts, and shuck their trousers from their hips. When Jaskier pushed Geralt down onto his back and climbed between his thighs, the Witcher let out a needy whine that appealed to the primal urges deep in Jaskier's chest and he allowed himself a quiet growl in reply. 

"Strong, loyal…" Jaskier purred into his ear and slid their cocks together in one graceful roll of his hips. Geralt gripped Jaskier's shoulders and arched up against him, biting back the choked moans that clawed desperately from his throat. "So, so beautiful, Geralt. My love." The kisses he showered over Geralt’s pale skin - his neck, his chest - felt like a ritual of worship, and Geralt’s hands gripping eventually in Jaskier’s hair spoke of an offering well received. 

Jaskier lifted away and took Geralt's ankles to spread his legs and reveal his ass to appraising eyes. When the Witcher pushed back in alarm, Jaskier cooed gently, leaning to press a kiss against the inside of his knee. "Don't be ashamed. I want to see all of you. All of what is mine." Geralt tilted his head back and breathed deeply through his nose. With nothing to do with his hands, he gripped the blankets beneath him and tucked his knees up to his chest.

Geralt was pink and tight, but slick was already leaking down the curves of his ass and Jaskier rolled his lower lip between his teeth; the sight made him rock hard and precum beaded at the head of his cock. He tilted his hips to rub his length over Geralt's balls and the underside of his straining erection. The movement was slow and indulgent, and Geralt squirmed desperately as Jaskier teased him. "I want you so wet for me. All for me, Geralt."

If it was possible to die from stimulation alone, Geralt was pretty certain he might. He was on fire again, his vision clouded with white spots and his body responded eagerly. Jaskier’s length stroked its way passed his entrance and over his balls, teasing with each thrust that _this_ might be the moment; it was glorious torture, and got better as Jaskier coated himself in the slick that ran down Geralt’s skin and soaked into the cotton sheets beneath them, but he couldn’t take it any longer. "Jaskier, _please…_ " 

The bard continued the roll of his hips until Geralt’s ass and his cock glistened, and notched his head against Geralt's entrance when the Witcher’s breathing came only in gasps and pants. He pushed just inside the tight ring of muscle and hissed through his teeth when Geralt's body clamped down on him. "Relax, breathe…" He allowed the Witcher's legs to drop to his waist and leaned over him for a tender kiss. Tight muscles relaxed tentatively, allowing him to ease in to the hilt. Geralt moaned into Jaskier's mouth as his lover filled him almost beyond what he could physically handle. Broad palms lifted from the mattress to cup Jaskier’s jaw even as his legs wrapped his waist.

Geralt was so tight. Unbelievably, amazingly tight. Jaskier gathered one calloused hand from his face and wove their fingers together above his lover’s head. Geralt was clenching his jaw and tilting his head away unless distracted by a kiss; embarrassed by the breathy, desperate noises escaping him. This was different to a quick fuck with an ebony-haired sorceress or a whore he hired in any of the shoddy towns and villages they traversed each year; he was exposed, raw and wet, and Jaskier could begin to understand how vulnerable he felt. _But he wanted it all._ Every moan, every cry… he didn’t want Geralt to hide from him.

It took the bard only three or four rocks of his hips before he found the bundle of sensitivity that made Geralt arch and moan desperate entreaties for more, the fingers curled through his gripping almost uncomfortably hard. Jaskier had seen Geralt punch a wyvern in the face and give it pause for thought, so no surprise there. The bard hummed and licked the arch of the throat exposed to him, only just stemming his urge to bite down. Stomach pressed low, he could feel the thickness of Geralt's cock twitching as he grew closer and he toyed with the idea of helping him along… _not yet._

"So beautiful, so pure. I want you to come just from this, Geralt. Just from having me inside you." Jaskier's voice, rich and melodic as always, but now edged in feral lust, was enough to rip Geralt's orgasm from him. The bard watched as his Witcher gasped and shuddered, his release hot on his stomach and chest. Jaskier withdrew only when Geralt's cock stopped twitching and the man in question made a sound of protest somewhere between a whine and a grunt. "Up here, on your side." Jaskier tugged at his bicep and Geralt obeyed, resting with his head on the arm he curled up under it and his knees tucked slightly forward.

When Jaskier spooned up behind and took him again, hypersensitivity caused Geralt's toes to curl, “ _Fuck.”_ Demand, statement… he wasn’t so sure himself. He pushed his ass back against Jaskier's hips, and the bard hummed in approval as he rocked into him. The pace was slower, but Jaskier could already feel Geralt's body building to another release, and he hid his grin from Geralt’s periphery with a kiss to the back of the shoulder. Finally, a perk to those Witcher mutations not related to the slaying of monsters. He stroked Geralt's waist and allowed his own head to loll back for a moment. _Fuck_ was right, this was _good_. He could feel all that power humming just below the surface, in the clench and flex of toned muscle and the fire in Geralt’s eyes when he looked back; Geralt could turn ‘round now and rip in half with his bare hands. And it all just made Jaskier want to tear the walls down even more. He took Geralt’s renewed erection in hand to pump in rhythm with his thrusts, and Geralt reached behind to grip into the flesh of Jaskier’s ass, no longer shy of demanding more.

The second climax was less urgent than the first. It bloomed through Geralt like the slow, warm light of a sunrise and when he came he moaned Jaskier's name in that gravelly voice thick with longing, yanking Jaskier off the edge with him. With Geralt's body clenched around him and his seed spilling over his hand, Jaskier pressed himself deep, his knot swelling as he filled his lover with his own release. When he bit the slope of Geralt's shoulder, the Witcher growled in delight. _Mine._

Knotted and deep, Jaskier licked the teeth marks he left behind, the tip of his tongue savouring each indentation as evidence that their bond had been established. He closed his eyes, rested on his side and listened to Geralt's pants level out to deep, pleased sighs. Claimed and sated, Geralt's equilibrium returned, and he wound his fingers through the hand that stroked up and down his torso and pulled it to his chest. The feelings of inadequacy were already clawing at the edges of their bliss, and Geralt heaved a deep sigh. Jaskier sensed the shift, "Speak to me, Geralt."

"You know I can't-- I've told you before that--," he cleared his throat, Jaskier's slightest movement reminding him of the knot still swollen inside him. "I'm sterile, Jaskier. I'm… incomplete."

Their final position had been deliberate; Jaskier had predicted this. Spooned up behind his mate, Jaskier pressed a kiss to the side of Geralt’s neck and ensured as much of their skin touched as he could. "You are perfect to me, in every way," he growled when the Witcher tilted his head to rebuke him, forced to pause with a quiet hiss of discomfort only when Jaskier tugged inside him. The bard bit him lightly next to that initial mark on his shoulder, red and purple on his pale skin, before he spoke, "I will not hear it. You are mine now, Geralt. I will worship every part of you as I wish… these doubts you have, the shame you carry in your heart, I will see it chased out and replaced with love and pride."

"And what if you decide one day that I'm not enough? That you want more?"

Jaskier huffed. "Destiny has bound us together. There is nothing more in this world than you," he sighed deeply. "But I know you, Geralt of Rivia. You require actions, not just words. You'll see the proof that you need in time, and I'll wait patiently for you to realise."

When he was able, Jaskier withdrew gently. He used some of that cold bath water to clean them both off and then left Geralt to doze peacefully until the afternoon. They ate a hearty lunch and then took a walk through Rinde. Gone was the anxious, skittish man that had fallen through his window the night before; Geralt walked with his usual grace and purpose. When a few local alphas looked in his direction with interest, he sent them packing with a dangerous glare and a curled lip. Jaskier's pride purred on the inside. _And he's mine._

***

The second spring Geralt was nervous. He hunted striga, wraiths, regularly flirted with that fine line between life and death… and he was nervous about _this. For fuck’s sake._ He waited for Jaskier in the same tavern, and when his alpha arrived he wasn't quite sure what to do. Instinct gave him a variety of options, but all of them made his stomach twist; Jaskier would reject him, he would change his mind, _laugh_. Jaskier just hummed happily at him even as he stood awkwardly by the open window, kissed and bathed him, and then took him to bed. He told him how beautiful he was, how valuable and _wanted_ , and Geralt believed him just a little more.

The third spring Geralt arrived earlier. He bathed and shaved, allowed himself the vanity of brushing his hair and some more private grooming and then probed tentatively at the instincts he had been so astutely ignoring for the last handful of decades. When Jaskier arrived, it was to a room thick with Geralt's scent and the man himself presenting on the bed. "Fuck, _Geralt."_ He couldn't tear his clothes away fast enough, and the sex left them both breathless and high.

By the _fifth_ spring, Geralt actively looked forward to his heat. He left Kaer Morhen in good time with a pocket full of coins and headed to their tavern. Jaskier barely got through the door before Geralt had scooped him up and deposited him on the bed. When Jaskier squawked - asking who the damn alpha was meant to be here anyway - Geralt had laughed, deep and hearty, and ridden him until he was ready to pass out. 

As they sprawled out on top of the covers that year, Jaskier spoke softly. "Before us… was there any other you considered?"

"One. I hurt him badly when he asked and he has the scars to prove it… I… maybe if I'd seen beyond my own shame, it might have been different."

"Eskel, isn't it?"

Geralt blinked and propped himself up on his elbow. "How did you - ?"

Jaskier chuckled, stretching like a large cat. "I have seen him look at you when your back is turned, even when you're not in heat. It's the same look I give you. He loves you more deeply than just your biology, Geralt. It's written in every line on his face." He rubbed his eyes, tired; Witcher stamina really put him to shame. “And I know you love him too. But there’s an obstacle. Like you’re both dancing around what you want for fear of… breaking each other. It’s all very sweet, really. Big, burly Witchers and you both treat each other like glass.”

"Jaskier, you don't need to worry, I'd never…"

The bard grinned; it was a toothy, feral display and he pulled Geralt down onto the bed properly again. "Oh my love, I'm not worried. I was just wondering how you'd look with two knots inside you." 

Geralt's body reacted - his cock half hard with interest, and his breath hitched - and Jaskier chuckled and rolled his lover onto his back. "I want you to bring him. Next year, I would share you with one that treasures you as much as I do. It can be a joint worship." The bard draped himself over his Witcher and sighed happily, "But it’s your choice. Think it over."


	3. Eskel (E)

Geralt expected it to be a stunted conversation with Eskel that winter. He left it until the final few days before he was due to depart. The other Witcher stared at him with a furrowed brow, his hand lifting subconsciously to his chest where Geralt had torn him open so many years ago. When he spoke, he measured each word carefully. "Yes… I still want to.”

“After all this time?”

Eskel rolled his eyes as if Geralt was the most thick headed creature on the Continent. _He definitely was_. “Being shut in this castle with you every winter's been a delicious, if brutal, brand of torture. When you chose someone else it… umm, it _cut_ quite a bit. But… are you sure?"

Geralt stepped into Eskel's space, two sets of amber eyes met; he could feel Eskel's breath on his lips and for a moment he allowed himself to inhale that familiar scent. Where Jaskier was honey and chamomile, Eskel was leather and cedarwood; they were worlds apart, and yet, now that he was willing to listen and feel it, both stirred in Geralt's chest the same flutter of happiness and familiarity. 

"All those years ago, I was…" He looked away, scrabbling in his mind for the pieces of the sentences he had been rehearsing. Scared? Stupid? Ignorant? None seemed to fit together anymore.

Eskel grunted and lifted a hand. It hovered over Geralt's chest hesitantly, before alighting gently over his heart. "I don't harbour any bitterness. You were… it was difficult back then. For all of us, but you especially. You know I'm always here. I always have been. Always will be." Geralt could barely breathe, and when he finally let out a sigh, he felt dizzy. 

Eskel's hand dropped away and he rubbed the back of his head, the other propped on his own hip. “And Jaskier? He… doesn’t mind? He knows you're asking? I'm not exactly the best surprise present...”

“It was his idea. He knows how you… _we_ feel.”

“His idea? That’s… unusual.” Skirting around the feelings, he was still a bit raw.

“ _He's_ unusual.”

“Well, I haven’t had a three-way in years.” He grinned, somewhat bashful, and Geralt found it more endearing than he really had a right to. _For fuck’s sake - why was Jaskier so right?_ Eskel glanced back towards the stairwell behind them, "I need to pack. We'll head out in a few days' time… snow's not melting as quickly as it used to." He turned away. "And if… if you change your mind, I won't… umm, it'd be fine."

***

Geralt and Eskel rode to Rinde together later than previous years. They stopped briefly to deal with a troll problem, and didn't barter the meagre payment any higher to avoid delay. Geralt spent the entire fight admiring Eskel, and the other Witcher berated him when the troll nearly landed a fatal blow as a result. Panting heavily, the huge corpse at his feet, Eskel growled. " _Focus_ , Geralt. You nearly lost your fucking head."

"You shouldn't smell so fucking good then."

Eskel just stared as Geralt scowled, dragged a rag down the silver blade in his hand and stomped away muttering something about 'fucking alphas and their hormones'. So stunned, Eskel almost forgot to behead their kill for payment.

Jaskier had arrived on time, and a hot bath awaited them. As he stepped into the room, Geralt noted the basin was much bigger than previous years. Eskel quirked an eyebrow, and Jaskier grinned in response. "I am assuming two Witchers don't mind sharing a bath. I'm afraid I rather prefer bed mates sans monster entrails and road dirt." Jaskier rolled up his sleeves and draped the wash cloth over his bare forearm.

Geralt huffed in amusement. "Witcher's valet."

"The finest! Now take your clothes off, I've been surrounded by the pale and the flabby all winter. You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to all… _that_." Jaskier raised both hands to frame the two, winking for added effect.

Eskel hesitated, clearly uncertain of the dynamic and perhaps, Geralt suspected, a little self-conscious. He had taken his swords off his back, but had gone no further. His facial scars had done a significant amount of damage to his self-esteem over the years, even though he would never admit it and close the conversation with a viciously self-deprecating joke. And so it was Geralt that undid the first pieces of his armour for him, popping the collar of his gambeson and pulling his cloak away, when Geralt knelt at his feet to take off his boots, Eskel looked quickly at Jaskier for a reaction. He expected to see burning jealousy, but it was an entirely different fire that set his blue eyes ablaze, and Eskel felt the first stirrings of arousal.

"Mmph, you just can't get the water hot enough at Kaer Morhen during the winter," Eskel murmured as he sank into the bath. He leaned his head back against the lip of the tub to openly admire Geralt as he stepped in after him, pressing his knees to the edges to make room. The tub was big, but it now contained a whole lot of Witcher. The scent of Geralt's heat had started two days ago - that deep, earthy petrichor - and now, with his alpha present and Geralt's consent, Eskel felt like he could begin to enjoy it. His control after all these years of pining was as unyielding as a blacksmith’s anvil, but it was a relief to allow it to begin to slip, if only a little.

Jaskier washed them both. He paid equal attention to each Witcher in turn, easily reducing Geralt to a happy, pliable state, but the second was a tad more resistant. Having sensed Eskel's hesitance when he was getting undressed, Jaskier caressed his body with reverence and ensured he met those amber eyes as he did so. Not once did Eskel touch Geralt any more intimately than a light brush over his hand or knee, and Geralt was content to stroke Eskel's face and the three knotted scars on his chest for which he was responsible. It was as if they were both confirming each other’s presence; Jaskier realised how fleeting their time together must be compared to their long life spans, and he was suddenly grateful for all the time he got to spend at Geralt’s side. In comparison, Eskel saw and lost Geralt in the blink of an eye every year.

The bard dried them once he was done, familiarising himself with the new skin and network of scars beneath his hands on the second Witcher. The musk was subtly different to Geralt's and it sparked a quiet aggression in his chest. He mentally prodded at that unfamiliar feeling with curiosity. Eskel was bigger, broader, with the power of a Witcher sitting quietly beneath the surface. His baser self felt threatened, but he hushed it down with the image of Geralt panting and whining as he struggled to take both of them, and suddenly Eskel was a welcomed playmate. The thick cock that hung, already semi-hard, against Eskel’s thigh certainly promised an interesting evening. His inner beast purred and he nuzzled his face into Eskel's back, to the Witcher’s surprise, before letting him go. 

"Sit here. I want you to watch the first time." Jaskier indicated the armchair near the bed and, towel wrapped loosely around his hips, Eskel sat without question.

Jaskier approached Geralt and took his hand. "Are you happy with that?" 

Geralt glanced from Jaskier to Eskel, his stomach knotted in excitement when those inquisitive amber eyes gazed softly back. His response was an almost breathless sigh. "Yes." 

It was Geralt leading now, pulling Jaskier over him and demanding a kiss. Jaskier was reminded just how strong those big hands were as they pulled needily at his arms and hips, threatening to tear his clothes if they kept getting in the way. Gone was the shivering, shamed omega of several years ago; Geralt knew exactly what he wanted and he would have it when he demanded it. Right fucking _now_. 

“Show off for me.” Jaskier murmured into Geralt’s mouth and managed to detach himself long enough to discard his clothes. He allowed his omega a moment to flex and posture on the bed; Geralt enjoyed the theatre now as much as Jaskier did. All those coiled muscles gliding about under pale skin as he crawled on all fours, his tight ass presented like the gift it was as molten eyes glanced back in silent challenge. Jaskier cast a sly glance across to Eskel and had to admire the Witcher’s restraint. He sat perfectly still, but one hand was biting into the arm of the chair with a white knuckle grip. 

Jaskier climbed onto the bed behind Geralt and grabbed his hips, running his thumbs firmly over the fleshy globes of his ass. His mate was ready for him without much help, but Jaskier enjoyed teasing him into a stupor. He dipped his head and drew his tongue across his balls and up over his entrance, tasting the bitterness of the slick and the musk of Geralt's heat. The Witcher bucked forward at the intensity of it, but as Jaskier's tongue and lips lapped at him with earnest desire, his jaw went slack and his chest and shoulders dropped to the bed as he growled into his forearm.

When his lover began to build to his peak, betrayed by the subtle quake of his flanks and the twitch of his cock heavy between his legs, Jaskier pulled his mouth away and lined up. He didn't stand on ceremony anymore and pushed into Geralt's intense heat with a single, fluid movement that coaxed a quiet, incredulous "Fuck" from the man before him. Definitely the best way he ever said it. Geralt's back arched as muscles flexed and pulsed to adjust, his fingers clenching in the blankets below him. He was already teetering on the edge as Jaskier began to drive deep, and then he made the glorious mistake of locking eyes with Eskel. 

Geralt fell off the brink into a toe-curlingly good climax from that wrecked expression alone. Eskel was touching himself with measured strokes, his thumb pressing across his head and fingers gripping the base firmly when they slid down. His pupils were so wide that his entire iris looked black, and his jaw was slack to allow for deep, shuddering breaths that spoke of slipping self control. He was entranced by Geralt. The arch of his back, the blissed look on his face when he was filled and the low, wanton moans Jaskier forced from him. 

The bard was drinking it all in and his orgasm was pursuing him as he tried to draw it out. Eskel's rapture just made Geralt keener, his body flexing and quaking even before he came. This had to be up there in Jaskier's top five best ideas of all time, right next to abandoning his life of luxury for a lute and deciding to follow Geralt on his adventures. Between the beauty of his mate before him and the rapidly unraveling Witcher propped up in the chair nearby, Jaskier climaxed hard, fingers digging into the slant of muscle over the front of Geralt's hips to push himself deep. Tied in place for now, he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on the sweat-sheened back before him, and watched as his lover flicked his head to beckon Eskel over. 

Eskel looked straight at Jaskier for permission and then quickly at the floor as he clamped down on the instinct, toxic as it was. The bard just gave him a lopsided grin and raised both eyebrows. "Give the man what he wants." 

Geralt growled impatiently, unable yet to wriggle free to pursue Eskel at his own pace, so he had to wait as the Witcher rose stiffly from his chair and sauntered on over, his feet silent on the wooden floorboards. As soon as he was close enough, Geralt slid a palm behind Eskel's thigh and pulled him until he could reach what he wanted. He ran his tongue along the slit of the thick cock that hovered finally within his reach, tasting the salty precum glistening at the tip and looking his newest lover dead in the eye as he did it. 

Eskel slid a hand through Geralt's hair, rapt, as the head of his cock dipped just past pale lips, inquisitive tongue drifting beneath and leaving a glistening trail of saliva as Geralt laced his length with open mouthed kisses. When Geralt finally took him in to the back of his throat, Eskel leaned his knees against the edge of the bed and tightened his fingers over Geralt's head to guide him lower. He could see the smirk in the creases at the corners of his eyes, and feel it in the stretch of the lips about him and choked out a gasp when Geralt readily took him past his gag reflex. _Teach Eskel for being demanding..._

Geralt made a low rumbling sound of disappointment as Jaskier withdrew and Eskel suddenly didn't trust his legs to hold him up. Those deep purrs of pleasure and the long, continuous pressure of Geralt's mouth made quick work of Eskel's composure, and he tried to draw back with a strangled warning. "Geralt, 'm 'bout t'--." That strong hand kept him firmly in place, gripping the back of his thigh, and he clenched a hand in his own hair as he filled Geralt's mouth and throat. Geralt choked, come dripping over his lower lip, and that image alone would make Eskel hard for months after every time he thought of it. 

Jaskier hummed in appreciation, and rubbed his fingers possessively down the cleft of Geralt's ass as he caught his breath. His own release mixed with Geralt's slick, the Witcher pressed back into the friction, growling in encouragement when Jaskier began to play and stretch him. He rose onto his knees and curled back, twisting ever so slightly to place a kiss on Jaskier's jaw. "I was promised both, at the same time," Geralt murmured, with the same intonation as a man critiquing a lacklustre meal. _The cheek._ Jaskier chuckled, "Insatiable beast." He sat back on his heels, stroking his other hand down his own cock as he considered Geralt's request.

"Hmm. You're bigger than I expected. You'll have to take him from behind," Jaskier looked appreciatively down at Eskel's renewed erection - who wouldn't get hard when Geralt arched like that - and the Witcher in question huffed in amusement. The bard grinned as he grabbed Geralt's chin and pulled him up the bed. "Wonder whether we can make a Witcher cry tears of joy..."

"Pfft," Geralt bit at the fingers near his mouth and Jaskier grabbed the back of his neck in punishment, drawing him up until Jaskier could lay comfortably against a nest of pillows and Geralt's ass hovered over his cock.

"I'm going to watch you beg, my love. You're most beautiful when you come undone completely. And Eskel's going to do it." He nudged Geralt's hip and he obediently lowered himself down, murmuring in appreciation as he began to ride Jaskier in lazy abandon. 

Eskel straddled the bard's knees and pushed Geralt forward. "Arch for me," his voice was rich and low, and it sent shivers down Geralt's spine as he curved it to provide Eskel access. " _Fuck_ , you're so wet…"

Jaskier could feel the calloused pad of Eskel's thumb against the underside of his cock as he massaged at Geralt's puckered entrance, and nearly lost his composure completely when Eskel lined himself up and pushed in alongside him after a little adjustment. Geralt stopped, his eyes closed and his breathing laboured and stuttering. He gripped the sheets either side of Jaskier's shoulders and shook with the pressure of it. "Fff..." Couldn't breathe, let alone speak. Running his fingers languidly over the arched spine in front of him, Eskel leaned back and propped himself on his other hand to admire the clench of Geralt's ass around his shaft. _Wasn't a prettier sight this side of the Great Sea._

The broken plea that Geralt managed to stutter out made Jaskier tingle all over, and he gripped the shuddering thighs at his hips. "Eskel, please… fuckin'... move." As beautiful a sound as rain water cascading over pebbles. Jaskier would keep this particular song to himself. One tanned hand gripped Geralt's shoulder and pulled him back to the hilt. It forced a strangled cry from his chest; a welcome addition to the catalogue of sounds that Geralt only ever made behind closed doors. Jaskier watched with lidded eyes as his lover came undone above him, surpassed only marginally in the pleasure caused by the smooth glide of another cock over his. Thick and hot, it was better than he'd fantasised while admiring it in the bath earlier...

Without urgency, Eskel rocked his hips, muscled body surprisingly graceful as he moved his torso with a serpentine ripple. His grip never loosened on Geralt's shoulder and hip, even when he tried to curl over during a shuddering orgasm, Eskel grunted and held him in place to ride it out, taut and revealed for Jaskier's viewing pleasure. 

The constant, unrelenting slide across his prostate, and the almost painful feeling of fullness, wrecked Geralt twice. The second time, Jaskier teased a hand down his length and elicited a pleasing litany of desperate whimpers, and it was just too good. The same man that literally wrestled with werewolves and forktails reduced to a quivering, wordless mess. Jaskier shifted his hands up to Geralt's hips as he came and, if his vision hadn't immediately clouded white at the edges, he would have been pretty smug to take Eskel with him. _Witcher stamina be damned._

Geralt fell forward, huffing exhausted pants on Jaskier's chest; Eskel's calloused hands appeared around the front of his torso and pulled him back up. For a terrible, heart-stopping moment, Jaskier watched Eskel mouth Geralt's shoulder. He hadn't factored in a bite. But the Witcher just pressed a kiss there and purred in contentment, slipping his hands lower to Geralt's stomach when he grunted in discomfort from the angle. As the fireworks settled, Jaskier propped himself up on an elbow - he was clearly getting old because everything bloody ached - and stroked his hand down the side of Geralt's face, a face that wore a blissed out expression that struggled to hold any shape at all beyond delirious and vacant. "Still with us?"

"Give me a minute…" 

"You do have two cocks inside you, take all the time you need."

Golden eyes flashed at him, and Geralt clearly wound up for a snarky retort, only when Eskel shifted and tugged inside of him it came out more like a... _squeak_. Yes, Jaskier would use the word _squeak_ when they discussed it later. Quiet minutes passed, punctuated only by Geralt's exhausted, shuddering pants and the occasional murmur as Eskel nuzzled his face into the pale back before him. When the other Witcher did eventually withdraw, Geralt hissed and rolled off Jaskier too. 

He tried to cuddle up against him, but Jaskier nudged him away. "No, no, no… I am covered, _covered_ , in Witcher come. Erotic as it is at the time, I am _so_ done now." It was drying. _Never pleasant._ He shuffled to the edge of the bed and walked unsteadily towards the cold water.

It was Eskel's hands that wrapped around the washcloth first though, and without a word he gently washed Jaskier's chest and stomach. The bard looked up at him, slack-jawed, surprised by the level of tenderness. Eskel raised an eyebrow at the questioning look, "Returning the favour…"

Jaskier swallowed and spoke softly. "Thank you for not… biting him."

Eskel huffed dismissively, ringing the cloth again. "That's for Geralt to give, not for me to take. I'd never betray his trust like that." 

"I'm right fucking here, you know." Geralt called from the bed. He had rolled onto his front, watching the exchange with interest, before finally deciding to swagger on over.

"How could we forget, your lordship," Eskel turned to face him and barked a laugh when Geralt spread his arms expectantly. "You're such a fucking _tart_ …" 

He was a little rougher than he could have been, only softening around tender areas when Geralt grimaced in discomfort, and he nuzzled a gentle apology to Geralt's chest. Eskel cast the cloth into the water and indicated the bed. The kiss that followed surprised them both and Eskel froze, rooted to the spot when Geralt's tongue dipped into his mouth. He reached up to take the hand that settled on the three jagged scars across his chest. "You marked me as yours a long time ago."

Geralt huffed. "I… Eskel, I'm…"

"Don't apologise. They remind me of you every day. I'd feel incomplete without them."

Jaskier was melting from the cute. Unrequited love being requited was his bread and butter. "You two just… I'm dedicating so many love songs to you. I can't even…" Geralt saw the doe-eyed look in those cornflower blues and grunted, embarrassed. "Geralt, really? _Really?_ You are going to get all awkward about that. I'll have you know that polyamory is accepted in a wide range of cultures and--"

"Jaskier, can we talk about this tomorrow?" Geralt sounded exhausted.

"Yes, yes, I suppose we can…"

Eskel laughed and was the first to return to bed. The others joined and Jaskier was quite content to snuggle in the middle of this beautiful Witcher pile. It didn't take long for them to drift off to sleep.

***

"Urf, you two are like a couple of furnaces," Jaskier kicked the covers away and sprawled his legs dramatically over the two sets either side of him. "No, no, too warm. I need air." He began to extract himself from his two bedmates. Geralt was dozing, a hand lightly curled around his bicep, and so it was Eskel who draped a muscular arm over the bard's chest to keep him still.

"No, stay…" His eyes flickered open, soft with sleep. "It's… this is nice." 

Jaskier blinked and lowered himself back. He stroked down Eskel's forearm and received a pleased purr. "You like the aftercare, hm?"

Eskel huffed a quiet, throaty laugh. "I never usually get it. No one wants to spoon with a Witcher," he circled his fingers in the soft hair on Jaskier's chest, gazing across at Geralt who still slept peacefully. "Most people can't wait to get away after it's done… regardless of how much you pay, or how good it was. S'just..." He cleared his throat, "...nice." 

Jaskier pressed his lips together and his heart ached. Suddenly he mentally adopted a new mission, a raison d'etre if you will; to hug every Witcher he found. The broken noses and clothes covered in gore would be totally worth it. No one should be this starved of affection. Not when every touch or caress could be their last. He could hear Lambert's startled squawk now, definitely one to attack from behind, get him before he realised what was happening and then flee before he recovered… 

So Jaskier stayed, shuffling lower and turning to allow Eskel to curl up around his back. Geralt instinctively nuzzled closer and buried his head under Jaskier's chin; the bard smirked when he murmured something about basilisks in his sleep. Hunting even in his dreams.

***

"Going so soon?"

"Man's gotta eat."

Eskel was kicking his foot into one of his boots, crouching down to tie the laces when his heel slid home. It was their third day in the tavern and while Eskel could happily spend an eternity in this room with Geralt and Jaskier, the Path called. He knew if he stayed to see out the last days of Geralt's heat, if they left together, he would not be able to leave his side for this season. It was better this way. The code demanded it. Jaskier pursed his lips and sighed at the reply, Geralt watched in pensive silence as Eskel tugged at the straps of his armour and pulled his sword belts across his chest. 

Jaskier realised suddenly that this would be farewell for the year. A ritual that would usually be conducted in the quiet halls of Kaer Morhen now played out in their small tavern room, and he could feel the unsaid words crackling in the air. Geralt rose suddenly from the mattress and covered the space with two easy strides and seized the edges of Eskel's cloak, hauling him up for a crushing kiss. Geralt was completely naked, but it was Eskel that shook and hunched under the attention, even as his gloved hands alighted on Geralt's bare hips. The White Wolf nuzzled his head to the side of his lover's and breathed deeply, his grip holding Eskel firmly in place for a moment longer as he took his fill of scent and skin contact.

When he pulled back, Geralt tugged at one of Eskel's sword straps, tightening the buckle properly in place. "Until next winter then." _Don't you dare fucking die._

"Make sure you bring enough crowns to lose at Gwent this time. Lambert is too stingy to play." _I won't. You better be there._

Eskel lifted his hand to his temple in a mock salute to Jaskier, and then he was gone. Geralt watched the back of the closed door with an intense stare. Witchers were capable of iron control; they were masters of their emotions in battle and before normal folk, but that didn't make them any better at working through them. How could you ever learn to deal with sadness, with anger, with that bereft feeling when a loved one departed on a journey that could very well kill them, when you were never allowed to feel them in the first place? The loss would be warring inside Geralt's head with the logic of it; Witchers did not travel together. This had to happen. _And yet..._

"Geralt," Jaskier spoke softly. "Come here."

The Witcher fell into his open arms gratefully, kneeling on the floor between his legs, with a quiet purr of gratitude as he nuzzled into Jaskier's silken doublet - well, _someone_ had to get dressed and get the food. Jaskier held him close, petting sleep-ruffled white hair and murmuring sweet nothings. Geralt wouldn't cry. Jaskier was pretty sure he couldn't, but his breathing and heart were faster than usual as he overcame his distress.

When Geralt eventually rose to his feet, his control, if not his internal stability, restored, he parted with a soft kiss to Jaskier's lips and stretched his arms above him. Muscle and bone popped, and he sighed contentedly. "Well, fuck, if I'd known he was that good, I'd have done it decades ago…"

 _That's right, Geralt. Smother them feelings with bravado._ Jaskier still laughed indulgently. "You're a heathen, Geralt of Rivia."

Geralt hummed in agreement and flopped onto the bed for a snooze.


	4. Project Lambert

"What the _fuck_ are you trying to do?"

"Nothing! It was just a hug! Lambert, lemme go!" Jaskier squirmed, arms intermittently wheeling in the air and gripping the thick arm currently wrapped about his neck. The Witcher had him in a headlock, tucked under his right arm and rapidly tightening until he could only cough and choke.

It had all started innocently enough. An invitation to winter at Kaer Morhen and spend the season hilt deep in either Eskel or Geralt was not really something he could turn down. It also allowed him to make progress on his adopted mission. Hug Every Witcher. There were two opportunities available. Vesemir and Lambert. Papa Witcher was difficult to pin down and somewhat intimidating in his grandeur, and so Jaskier had selected what, he had believed at the time, to be the easier target. 

Attempt one had been made in the armoury. Lambert was sharpening a handful of the school's remaining swords, a ritual he, apparently, did every winter. However, as Jaskier padded close to his back, the Witcher looked up. Geralt called Lambert a 'fiery little shit', but there was nothing _little_ about him. Easily as tall as Geralt, a scar running just past his right eye and an air of irritability that hung over him like a dark cloud, he was intimidating in every sense of the word. As he stood up, sword in hand, he stared at Jaskier with a quirked eyebrow. _What do you want?_ Wearing the majority of his armour, probably a guard against the biting cold that permeated every room of the keep without an active fire in the grate, with sword in hand, he cut too much of an imposing figure and Jaskier bottled it. "Just… checking in on you. Hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything?"

Lambert glared and sat back down, muttering something about Kaer Morhen becoming a hotel for idiots before he continued his work. Jaskier slunk away. Attempt number two had gone much the same way; Lambert sorting through a bag of herbs and tubers he had collected from the surrounding woodland. Again, he heard Jaskier approach, gave him an irritable glance and snatched a knife from the bench to start quartering his crop. A punch in the nose was one thing, but a knife in the gut was entirely another. Jaskier bottled it again.

The third opportunity was perfect. The Witchers had been drinking, Vesemir had retired early to his bunk and Lambert had entertained them with his Papa Vesemir impression, accompanying hat and ye olde vernacular all included, before flopping onto a bench to enjoy the rest of his moonshine. In only his shirtsleeves, no armour, no swords, no knives… attempt number three was ‘ _go’_. Jaskier sat down next to him. No reaction. Shifted a bit closer. A curious glance, but no protest. So Jaskier stretched in and wrapped his arms around broad shoulders. For a glorious moment, Lambert sat perfectly still, his breath caught in his chest and Jaskier believed he would melt into it in his drunken-assisted revelry. _No._

In one fluid motion Lambert twisted onto his feet and snatched Jaskier's head. The stein of alcohol and the bench they had been sitting on clattered to the floor, and Lambert bore his teeth in a feral snarl. He demanded his explanation and Jaskier wheezed it for him.

"A _what_?"

"Lambert, _drop him_!" Geralt was on his feet now, fists clenched.

"He tried to fucking… _do something_ , attack me. I'm not even armed, sneaky little - !"

Eskel pinched his nose, allowing his book to fall closed. "No, he tried to show you some affection. It was an embrace Lambert, not a knife in sight," he gave a long-suffering sigh. "He has it in his head to hug every Witcher he meets and... befriends."

" _What?_ " Lambert glanced down at the bard under his arm and, as Geralt looked increasingly murderous, released him. Jaskier coughed and straightened up slowly. His eyes were watering - lack of air, totally not crying. Lambert stared at him and Jaskier expected an angry rant - don't fucking touch me, you had no right, get fucked you prick - but instead Lambert's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"We've been friends a long time," Jaskier croaked. "Granted, not from your point of view… colleagues? Umm, acquaintances? Alright, well, distantly familiar - look, I know Witchers don't get many… hugs. You know, to show appreciation and… gratitude. So, I thought..." Alright, the explanation sounded poor when he spoke it out loud. "So, thank you for… being you?" He petered out and looked at Lambert with a hopeful grimace.

The Witcher squared up to him and he flinched. Lambert drew in and held a breath as if in preparation for a trademark tirade… only to turn around and storm off. One of the antiquated wooden chairs that littered the West Hall didn't escape as easily; he swiped it with the side of his fist as he walked past and it shattered against a wall.

"Is he going to kill me in my sleep?" Jaskier gazed at the vacant archway Lambert had just disappeared through, only half joking.

"Unlikely," Eskel leafed back through his novel. "You just said thank you, and he isn't sure how to deal with it. He'll go cut up a few target dummies and punch some things. Leave him to it."

The bard sat back down on the bench, propping his chin on the heel of his hand, dejected. "This is going to be harder than I thought…"

Geralt chuckled quietly into his drink and Eskel shrugged. 

***

Jaskier didn't have to wait long to see Lambert again. This time the Witcher found him. Propped up in one of the old Witcher bunks, Jaskier was scratching away at a new song in his journal, occasionally humming to himself. When a shadow fell over his page, he looked up with a smile, expecting to see Geralt or Eskel, but… "Fuck, Lambert… look, I'm sorry, I've thought about it and I really shouldn't have touched you without permission, and I--."

"I came to apologise." 

"What?"

"I overreacted. I'm not used to--... I never--," he clenched his teeth, rolled onto the balls of his feet and looked anywhere but at Jaskier. "People only ever touch me if they're trying to kill me, so I assumed…"

"That I, Jaskier, _the bard_ , was trying to murder you, Lambert, _the Witcher_.” It came out a little more cutting than he intended, and he huffed a sigh. “We’re both sorry. Apology accepted.” He shifted back into the candle light and returned to his ballad, but as the seconds passed, Lambert was _still_ standing there. Slowly, Jaskier looked up at him with an inquisitive tilt of the head.

“I want the hug.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Don’t make this fucking weird.” Defensive.

“Alright…?” Jaskier valiantly suppressed his excitement. He was hugging this damn Witcher.

“And I’m not interested in any of--... you, Eskel and Geralt, that’s all fine, but I’m not--,”

“No. None of that. Just a nice, platonic hug.”

“Don’t say ‘nice’. That’s making it weird.”

“Alright. Just a hug.” Jaskier placed his journal on the bunk, hopped to his feet and spread his arms. When Lambert hesitated, he flapped a hand to indicate he should step forward. Slightly shorter, Jaskier wrapped Lambert's chest and pulled him close. This may be the only hug he managed to land, so it was going to be a proper one. 

Head tilted to the side against one broad shoulder, palms flat and still on his back despite his natural urge to caress. He was pretty sure if he stroked Lambert right now, he’d lose his head. There was a brief, tense moment when it felt like the Witcher was going to tear away and lash out instead, but it passed the moment he _melted_ into Jaskier’s arms. The bard could feel the breath of his sigh - it rumbled like a purr - and Lambert encircled him in return . He was just as solid and warm as both Geralt and Eskel, and Jaskier tried _really hard_ not to smell him to see if his scent was the same too. These Witchers with their roguish stubble, dashing scars and broad shoulders _._

It lasted just short of becoming awkward - on Lambert’s side that is, Jaskier could hug Witchers all day long - and Lambert dropped his arms away to step back. Shoulders squared, he inclined his head at Jaskier in a guarded farewell, and left without another word.

Later, Jaskier practically tackled Geralt in the library, extracting himself from the embrace only when he had nuzzled his fill. “Geralt, _Geralt…_ I got him. I hugged him. Lambert, and _he hugged me back._ ”

“Hmm,” Geralt smirked.

“What?”

“Jaskier, the tamer of Witchers. Has a ring to it.” He kicked his booted feet up on the table and went back to perusing the treatise on basilisk venom. “I really don't think Letho is a good idea though. He _would_ actually murder you in your sleep.”

“Challenge. Accepted.”


	5. Home Sweet Oxenfurt

"I'm not sure…" Geralt buckled Jaskier's woollen blanket to Roach's back.

"Come _on_ , you can't tell me that you aren't curious about what it would be like to spend a winter outside of your ruin."

"Oof, don't let Vesemir hear you bad mouth Kaer Morhen." Eskel grimaced, stroking a hand down the neck of his horse as it whinnied at him impatiently. The three had met at the crossroads outside Vergen. It was _that_ time of year again, and Jaskier was determined that _this_ year he would spend the winter solstice celebration wrapped in Witcher.

"Alright. Keep of Breathtaking Majesty," Jaskier twirled a hand to add flourish. "Either way, it's cold and lonely up there in the mountains, but also on my own in Oxenfurt. I want you both in my bed this winter to keep me warm. Being exclusively yours has its downsides. The amount of warm bodies I watch pass me by, the times I walk home through the snow from a banquet _alone_. _Alone_ , Geralt."

Geralt glanced up from where he was packing his bedroll away. "Exclusively?" His voice was low, but there was a flicker of a little something in his eyes… was that relief? Happiness? Pleasure. The bard pouted, disgruntled. Geralt had never thought himself and Eskel to be his only lovers. _The cheek._ Jaskier’s philandering days were well behind him. When one's mates could smell a fly taking a shit ten miles away, one really had to behave oneself. Imagine if he turned up one spring smelling of _someone else_ . And besides, _look at them_. How could he want anyone else? So, Jaskier decided not to indulge that question with any sincerity.

"Of course. Once you go Witcher, nothing else'll… fit ya’. _Don't look at me like that, Eskel._ " He huffed a sigh and threw his hands up in the air. "I am not above begging. Come with me to Oxenfurt. I want you walking naked around our house, terrorising the locals with those beautiful eyes in the snow and getting drunk on mulled cider. _Please_."

Geralt stopped suddenly, incredulous. _Our house._ “You kept it?”

“ _Of course I kept it._ It’s _our_ house. Where else are you going to retire to? It's taken me years to get it in any decent order. Basically derelict. The carpentry alone took an entire season's earnings.--"

Jaskier continued to waffle on with his back to them to a non-existent wider audience as he had a penchant to do - furnishings were a nightmare; getting the right drapes; just couldn’t get the labour these days - and the two Witchers exchanged a glance. Eskel opened his mouth to say something, but Geralt rested a hand gently on his bicep and gave a single shake of his head. This was one dream that Jaskier should be able to hold onto for as long as possible. The bard turned back to them, “--and when I found the rising damp, _well_ … I thought that was going to be the end of it, but we managed.”

Eskel tilted his head to the side. “How’d you get it?”

"I did a contract for the local magistrate a couple of years ago, hmm... more than a couple," Geralt murmured quietly. "His money was all tied up in property. I was… irritated, but took it anyway. I had no use for it. So I entrusted it to Jaskier thinking he would find some way to sell it and get himself something smaller, and less… work."

"At least you didn't claim the Law of Surprise…" Eskel swung himself up into his saddle.

"Yes, because that always goes so fucking well." Geralt petted Roach's nose and appeared… undecided.

"Hmm. Very well, Jaskier. Geralt and I will winter with you." Geralt looked up suddenly. Eskel waved his unspoken question away dismissively, "You want to say yes, but you're also a teacher's pet. Vesemir won't miss us for one winter." 

Geralt opened his mouth to argue, but in the end admitted defeat with a rough sigh. He climbed up onto Roach's back and flicked his head for Jaskier to sit behind him.

The bard was too busy vibrating on the spot with excitement. "Oh, you won't regret it. It's going to be so, so good. You'll never want to winter anywhere else again. I promise, oh and--."

"Get on Roach, Jaskier." Geralt grated out, eyes rolling skyward.

"Yes, yes… coming. _This is going to be so much fun._ " He clambered up and the mare stomped a rear hoof in protest as he caught her flanks in his eagerness. Geralt soothed her with a pat to the neck - "easy, Roach" - and clicked his tongue to urge her on down the path. 

***

Oxenfurt was as alive and bustling as ever. The autumn semester at the university had come to a close, and with the doors of learning shut until the spring, students, professors, artisans and poets all crowded into the narrow streets for the winter festivities. Every tavern overflowed with drunken revellers, and business elsewhere was booming as a result; workshops, studios and stalls boasted articles and items that were available nowhere else on the Continent, mainly because their provision would have been seen as pointless frivolity. In the city of Oxenfurt though, where business enterprise, the arts and the scholarly converged, they found their rightful place. 

Eskel dismounted as they walked through the gate and occasionally left Geralt with his horse to wander into the press of bodies and peruse a stall. Geralt indulged his curiosity and took Jaskier by the elbow to stop him every time the other Witcher drifted off. Eskel enjoyed the peculiar and the quirky, and often returned to Kaer Morhen in the winter with a new trinket - magical or otherwise - to add to his collection. This sense of wonder, this need to learn, was something innate within him. Yennefer had once said that she sensed more magical power in Eskel than any of the others and Geralt had always been mildly jealous of his academic credos. Oxenfurt, he realised, would have been a natural home for Eskel had he been born into any other life. _Destiny_ _was a fucking asshole._

By the time they turned off into a quieter residential street, Eskel had secreted away a few new purchases into his gambeson, wrapped in brown paper and twine, and took the reins of his horse back. Jaskier beamed up at the house, “Ahh, home sweet home.”

The two Witchers stood side by side and looked up. It cut quite an impressive sight, with its tall, gabled roof, decorative half-timbering and masonry embellished with stucco, and Eskel glanced around the corner and realised there was something of a stable, or at least a passable outhouse, attached to the side. Jaskier tapped his pockets and eventually pulled out a small brass key to jam in the lock. “Someone visits now and then to check on everything while I’m away. I’ll have to head out tomorrow for food, and oats for the horses, but we can get some water from the pump and--.” He continued to talk logistics as he shimmied the door open. Eskel took Roach and flicked his head towards the door to indicate Geralt should head inside.

The inside of the house was cold and quiet, but there were no lingering smells of damp or rot as Geralt would have expected. The house he was given all those years ago had been, in his opinion, beyond repair. Yet Jaskier had managed to transform it into something livable. Geralt peered through the darkness at the wooden cladding on the walls and began to carefully remove the dust sheets from the furniture. 

Jaskier’s bawdy taste in clothes had not translated across into his choice of decor; the dark, autumnal tones he had chosen for the couches, the tapestries and the rugs… it was actually quite _tasteful._ Geralt turned quickly as the bard thudded into something solid and squawked in alarm. “Ahh, Geralt… bit of Igni, my love. Not all of us can see in the dark.”

Eskel arrived about ten minutes later as Geralt finished lighting the braziers downstairs. He had settled and secured the horses, and carried their saddlebags over his shoulders into the house. Jaskier realised that, as he stood awkwardly in the centre of the living room, he wasn’t sure where to put them. He looked absolutely huge framed by the trappings of domesticity, and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as his imposter syndrome fermented. Nothing in their training prepared them for _this_ ; it wasn’t _yet another tavern room_ where a bag hastily slung in the corner wouldn’t look out of place. “You… can put those down anywhere, Eskel. Maybe upstairs? There’s a study, second door on the right.”

Jaskier sprawled on one of the couches once Geralt had set a fire up in the grate, and listened as the Witchers nosed their way around the house. They didn’t speak, but he could hear the rustling, the tapping and the subtle pad of their footsteps as they moved from room to room. In the study, Eskel shed his gloves and ran his hands over the spines of the books crowding the far wall, and paused at the small spinet piano sitting under the tall window opposite; he touched the ivory keys, but didn’t press them. Geralt smoothed his palms over the timber surfaces in the kitchen and opened pretty much every cupboard and cabinet he came across, pausing in the master bedroom long enough to crouch down and slide his fingers through the soft fur rug beside the empty fireplace. This process of systematic and tactile investigation continued for what felt, to Jaskier, like an eternity. 

Were they expecting it to dissipate in their hands? For the illusion to shatter? When the Witchers met in the upstairs hallway in passing, neither man could do anything but stare at the other, a mixture of disbelief and bewilderment flickering through twin pairs of amber eyes. This was _theirs?_ This was theirs. Jaskier had said _our_ house... 

They both appeared in the lounge together, and the bard rose hesitantly to his feet. “Well? W-what do you think? I think it is quite passable as a home, perhaps not the most opulent, but I know you have a virulent hatred of _colour_ , so...” He was nervous. _Why was he nervous?_ Everything was bloody amazing. He _knew_ it was. But as he looked at those dour expressions, he could feel his heart flutter with anxiety.

“Jaskier, this… you did this for us?” Geralt asked quietly.

“Yes, of course.”

“When?”

“Well, every winter, while you were at Kaer Morhen. It is terribly boring here in between the parties, and the drinking...” he cleared his throat. “I realised when I met Vesemir, old as he is, that I will be long dead and buried by the time you two are thinking about winding it down. To be quite frank, I’m feeling rather past my prime nowadays as it is, and I… I wanted you to have something to… to remember me by. Something that would bring you comfort and peace. And… I--”

And then Geralt was on him. Big arms engulfed Jaskier’s chest and pulled him into a heated kiss that chased away the last of the winter chills. Eskel pressed to Jaskier’s back and nuzzled down into his hair, nipping at the back of his neck with affectionate rumbles escaping his chest. When Geralt finally allowed Jaskier up for air, he tilted his head against Eskel’s where it had come to a rest on his shoulder and grinned sheepishly. “So, is that a seal of approval?”

“Mmm.” Geralt brushed his nose across Jaskier’s forehead in a soft nuzzle, and then pressed his lips into Eskel’s hair as the other Witcher remained face down into Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“Excellent, now, as much as I _adore_ being crushed between you two, your armour smells of stale sweat, horse and… hmm, what is that? Oh, lovely, I believe that’s the remains of a graveir... off, I would like to go and make some arrangements for food…” He wriggled pointedly and they reluctantly allowed Jaskier to slip out from between them. “Make yourselves comfortable. Remember… _all of this_ is yours, so don’t stand on ceremony. I’ll be back with some cheese and wine. We can sort baths and such tomorrow.”

***

As he returned with some groceries, Jaskier heard the sound of raised voices from inside the living room.

“Don’t you _dare_ fucking say anything. He knows.”

“I don’t think he does, Geralt.”

“He asked me years ago, before… before _this_ , and I told him.”

“Really? You told him. You told him that Witchers _don’t_ retire. They _die._ They slow and they get killed. They die alone, in the dark and the cold, if they’re _lucky_ it’s quick, but usually they get to feel every minute of it. No one to mourn them, no family, no friends, no…” Eskel trailed off; Jaskier had never heard him raise his voice. It didn’t suit the calm, even-tempered man he knew with his steady hands and gentle caresses. The bard frowned.

“Why are you being such an asshole?”

“ _Because_ Geralt, do you know how much I’ve dreamed of this? Of having a home that isn’t a decrepit castle full of ghosts and memories of agony. Of _us,_ of… fucking hell, I didn’t even know I wanted something like _him_ until four years ago… and it comes just when I’ve managed to come to terms with the fact that I will _never_ have any of it, that the Path is all I have and will ever have, and then… then he gives me it all. Right here, as if it’s just that easy. No… that… _no._ Too much.”

“You’re overthinking, Eskel,” Geralt moved slowly closer, tentative, as if approaching a spooked horse. “You’ve lectured me for years about not _allowing_ myself anything, and now you’re doing exactly the same. Just… enjoy it. Enjoy me, Jaskier… this place. Might as well, it’s right here for you.”

The grunted reply was too quiet for Jaskier’s human ears to pick up. The bard leaned his back against the wall next to the front door. Of all the reactions he had expected, panicked anger was not one he had considered. He reached a hand out of the handle, and then paused when Eskel spoke again.

“And when the Path rips it all away again?”

“Then it will do so over my dead body.”

Eskel groaned. “And _that..._ that’s what I’m afraid of. I need… I need some time. Just… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not sure. Probably to drink and punch a bandit. I’ll decide when I get there.” 

The front door opened and Jaskier panicked, turning to and fro for somewhere to hide, but as Eskel stepped out, he caught his scent straight away and looked at him. The Witcher opened his mouth to speak, but then he turned his head with a soft sigh and walked away into the darkness. Jaskier inched through the open door and deposited the armful of groceries in the kitchen before finding Geralt by the fire. He had shed his armour and sat cross-legged on the rug in a clean shirt and trousers, his head bowed to his chest and his eyes closed. “How much did you hear, Jaskier?”

“Enough to know he is having a bit of a crisis,” the bard kicked his boots off and settled down at Geralt’s side, close enough to lean against his shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?”

“He’s just overwhelmed. And he overthinks everything, has since we were children. It took him two winters after we mated to realise I wasn’t about to kick his ass out of a window at Kaer Morhen if he touched me. He’ll be back once he’s talked himself around in circles.”

Jaskier chuckled and rested a hand on the side of Geralt’s knee. “And you?”

“Hmm. I think I’ve become accustomed to being awestruck by you over the years.” He slipped Jaskier a sly glance.

“ _Accustomed?_ By Freya’s ass, I need to get better material then…” 

Geralt laughed and hauled Jaskier into his lap. “So, all your songs? All the royal functions you did? All that money you made?”

“All in here.”

“Then I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For thinking you pissed it away on gwent and prostitutes all this time. I should have known better.”

“Yes _._ Yes, actually. You should have. Dickhead.” He punched Geralt on the shoulder, and then sprawled back against his chest as if he were an armchair. “Alas, I have had to continue to cultivate such a reputation, the tips tend to get bigger the more you tell someone how beautiful they are, how their eyes and their wit shine like the stars, even if they are dimmer than dying embers compared to…”

“Compared to?”

“You and Eskel,” he murmured. “I could sing about _your_ eyes alone for an eternity, and then Eskel’s when he looks at you, ahh, it creates its own… music... “

Geralt could feel Jaskier relaxing into his embrace, and his eyes were struggling to stay open. It had been a long few nights on the road; their last contract had required three nights’ stake out around an old mine, and they had stopped only briefly on their way to Vergen for a few hours rest. As the bard drifted off to sleep in his arms, he shifted him carefully onto the rug and curled up around him, content to listen to the gentle rhythm of his heart while he waited for Eskel to return.


	6. Piano Lesson

It was dawn before Eskel returned. His even, quiet tread betrayed his sobriety, and that just troubled Geralt more. He allowed the other Witcher to slip past, and wrapped tighter around Jaskier. When the bard stretched and groaned an hour or so later - “fuck, why did we sleep on the _floor?_ I think my back has locked up, ow, Geralt, _my leg is asleep_ ” - Geralt unfurled and reached for his boots. “I’ll go and see about that water.”

“Of course. Did Eskel…?”

“Yes. He went upstairs. Just leave him to it. He’ll come down when he’s ready.”

Geralt left in search of clean water, and Jaskier didn’t take his advice. He tiptoed his way upstairs - probably as loud as thunderclaps to Eskel - and found the Witcher sitting in the study at the spinet piano. It had been one of Jaskier’s later purchases, a slight vanity if you will; the room was too small for a full piano forte, but the little instrument made a very sweet tone and the bard had rather fallen in love with it. It was just about broad enough to accommodate a wider bench, and Jaskier approached Eskel’s shoulder. “Do you play?”

“No,” he replied, and for a moment Jaskier worried that he was being dismissed, then Eskel drew in a breath. “I’ve watched people play. In taverns, mainly. I think I could muster the rhythm, but not the melody.” 

“Well, melody is just a succession of tones set to a rhythm, I think you would be surprised. Shift over. Let me show you.”

Eskel shifted on the bench and Jaskier nestled close. With the Witcher’s broad shoulders, it was a bit of a squeeze, and so Jaskier dropped his closest shoulder to rest the heel of his left hand on the back of the bench, and lifted his right hand to the keys. “The four parameters of music are pitch, rhythm, volume and tone… melody is a combination of pitch and rhythm. On the piano, there are notes... and chords…” He played a ‘B’ and then ‘C Major’ in succession. Eskel followed him closely, his brow creased in concentration, so the bard continued. “It’s easier, when you're beginning, to just learn some simple songs to build your confidence. Try this, we can play it together… put your hand under mine.” Jaskier guided those rough fingers across the keys, surprisingly pliant and graceful; sword wielding clearly required more finesse than Jaskier had ever given it credit for.

The first time Eskel completed a section, he smiled. “Perhaps there is hope for my musical career yet…”

Jaskier chuckled. “You will take the Continent by storm, my love.” Eskel looked at him suddenly, those deep golden eyes searching cornflower blues for the joke, but finding only open affection. The bard kissed him softly, shifting his hand to drop his fingers between Eskel’s and squeeze his palm in reassurance as his tongue dipped into his mouth. Their love for Geralt had bonded them together, but Eskel had always been wary with his own heart; Jaskier would continue to tease away the walls, brick by brick, until Eskel let him in as easily as Geralt did. The Witcher sighed happily, and nipped Jaskier’s lower lip when he pulled away. Jaskier hummed, “Right, well… let’s play again. We can add your other hand later.”

When Geralt returned from his errand, he followed the sound of sporadic notes up the stairs and stood in the doorway of the study, half expecting to find Jaskier morosely pawing at the piano having walked into an argument with Eskel. Instead, the sight that greeted him sent tendrils of warmth through his chest. He leaned against the frame on the threshold to watch as the two loves of his life tapped away at ivory keys, Jaskier’s head tilted to Eskel’s shoulder, murmuring instructions and praise alternately, and Eskel lost in the lesson. So lost, in fact, that Geralt was able to tiptoe away to prepare some breakfast.

An hour passed, and finally Jaskier lifted his hand away. “I know you think I’m naive,” he spoke softly, circling his fingers on the back of Eskel’s wrist. “But… I know. I know about it all. I’ve walked your Path at Geralt’s side, and even if I don’t necessarily slay the monsters, or… drink the potions and cast your Signs. I see the toll it takes. I know you don’t feel like you have a choice about how it ends, but you do. And it can end in Geralt’s arms, in the bed next door hundreds of years from now, if you allow it to.”

Eskel smiled, and took Jaskier’s hand in his. “I think long lives just make us morose,” he looked down at the slender fingers in his palm. “I can’t work out whether your fire stems from your mortality, like the tail of a shooting star, bright but fleeting… or whether it’s all... I’ve never met a human like you.”

Jaskier purred. “Oh darlin’,” he pressed a kiss to his cheek that might have been considered chaste if it hadn’t been for the hand high on Eskel’s thigh. “No one burns brighter than me.”


	7. Midwinter (E)

“It's the longest night, the start of Yule. Drinks, dancing, laughter… everyone who is _anyone_ attends this party.”

“And that, dear bard, is why I will be staying right here.” Eskel murmured from the floor. The snow had started to fall thick and fast three days ago, and the streets of Oxenfurt were now blanketed in drifts that sometimes crept up past knee height; the taverns were quieter and many of the street stalls had decided to close up until spring. Geralt had suggested they stay in with some wine and a tall stack of firewood, and neither Eskel nor Jaskier had argued.

Eskel had picked a particularly large volume from the study, sprawled out on his back in front of the fire with one arm tucked behind his head and the other holding the book just above his face. Geralt had opted to stretch out over the couch and snooze, an almost empty bottle of wine still held loosely balanced on his chest and his head in Jaskier’s lap. _Comfortable._ Not exactly the rampant sex Jaskier had envisaged when he had invited them to Oxenfurt, but then, his back still bloody hurt from falling asleep on the floor anyway, and there was something quite beautiful about watching his two Witchers doze and relax in their own home.

“Don’t be like that. You have no idea how many years I’ve waited to stroll in there with two Witchers on my arm. Some of the old farts from the university still think I make it all up, you know. After all this time. _Don’t be absurd, Jaskier, a living cockatrice hasn’t been seen in years… it’s all in your head, Jaskier._ _Wraiths are a myth made up by poor peasant folk when their crops fail._ Ow, ff--...” He had become animated in his indignation, and his back gave a painful twinge when he lifted his arms up to enunciate his point. 

One of Geralt’s eyes opened, and then squinted at Jaskier’s chin. “Your back still hurts.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, no… it’s _fine._ Just…” Geralt was doing his don’t-bullshit-me-it’s-tiresome stare - _with both eyes open now -_ and Jaskier heaved a sigh. “Yes, yes it is… I don’t understand. I sleep on the forest floor with you for three seasons of the year, I...”

“Hmm.” Geralt sat up slowly and put his bottle of wine down on the floor. When he stilled, he sat with his legs spread and patted the sofa between them. “Sit here.” Jaskier extracted himself from the pillow he had been sitting against and shimmied between Geralt’s thighs, but when he tried to lean back, Geralt’s palms pressed between his shoulder blades in denial. “Straight.”

“Oh sweet, I haven’t called myself straight in ye--, _fuck Melitele’s tssss…”_ Jaskier sat up _very_ straight as Geralt’s thumbs pushed into the base of his back, and moved in a wide circle over _exactly_ where it hurt. “G-Geralt, that…” His lower lip quivered, and he sniffed once _…hurts_. And then Geralt’s lips were on his neck with gentle kisses along his hairline - "hush, breathe deeply" - and he let out a breath. 

The pain abated to soreness and then to a dull throb as Geralt worked, leaving the offending site to tend to Jaskier's upper back and shoulders with splayed fingers, and firm, flat palms. With Geralt's warm breath against his neck and those big hands so skilful, Jaskier began to dissolve and shifted back on the couch. He could feel Geralt getting hard against the curve of his ass and his own body reacted in kind. "Mm. So this was your plan all along, very nefarious indeed…" 

The air thickened with the scent of it, and Eskel's eyes slowly shifted away from his novel to Jaskier. He examined that blissed expression, and then the impressive bulge building in the front of his breeches. Book quickly forgotten and cast unceremoniously aside, Eskel sat up and shifted onto his knees. As he reached to undo the button and lace at the front of Jaskier's trousers, the bard hummed in interest. "Another remedy for a bad back?"

Eskel just smirked, making quick work of the ties before grabbing the waistband and insisting Jaskier lift his rear so they could be pulled away. When Jaskier's cock sprang gratefully free, Geralt pulled him back against his chest and slid those stupidly talented hands down to his thighs to pull them up over his own. Splayed and vulnerable to Eskel's attentions, Jaskier's breath hitched in excitement and he turned to nuzzle a kiss into Geralt's neck.

Any semblance of stoicism didn't last, because Eskel began to lap the precum from his head with an almost chaste flick of the tongue, and he let out a shuddering sigh. "Mmm. You are so gorgeous on your knees...." Jaskier could feel Geralt's smirk bloom next to his forehead; the Witcher in question reached around the front and gripped the base of his cock to bring it to its fullest, sliding his other hand down to cup and fondle his balls. He sat up against Jaskier’s back to peer down the slope of his chest and watch his other lover work. Eskel took half in his mouth and rippled his tongue underneath, eliciting a deep, pleased moan from Jaskier. "Fucking _yes…"_ Geralt allowed him to rock his hips, and so Jaskier slipped a hand through Eskel's hair and stroked over the back of his head in encouragement.

Jaskier tilted his head and panted against Geralt's neck, inhaling the thick, heady scent of his omega as he became more excited, and spreading his thighs wantonly when Eskel nudged them apart a little further. His mouth stopped its work and was replaced by the slide of Geralt's palm, when Jaskier opened his eyes it was to see Eskel sliding two fingers into his mouth instead, coating them liberally with saliva. _Fuck… yes yes yes._ Eskel's lips returned to him to suck attentively at the head and those two slick fingers began to rub firmly at his entrance, teasing tight muscles looser. One slipped inside as Eskel's mouth descended towards Geralt's hand massaging at the base of his cock still, followed quickly by the second; Jaskier hissed as they eased in to the knuckle and crooked to seek its destination. The fantastic thing about long term lovers? They knew every part of your body as intimately as their own, and it took Eskel all of about five seconds to find Jaskier's prostate and begin rubbing gently in time with his mouth. "This… is too… hngh." Geralt grinned. Jaskier rendered speechless. _A first_.

Warm and wet - Eskel knew how much Jaskier liked it when his cock glistened, so allowed his mouth to water liberally - the Witcher's lips and tongue alone would have driven the bard to a pleasing conclusion, but with Geralt's hands and the fingers buried inside him, Jaskier's climax was earth-shattering. Geralt kept his thighs spread so he could watch, and Jaskier arched into Eskel's mouth, gripping the hair at the base of his skull as he pushed his head back to Geralt's shoulder. It felt like hours before he caught his breath again and the sparks in his vision cleared; Geralt stroked his leg idly, and Eskel lifted his shirt off and used it to clean his mouth and chin. 

"I feel… that was… there are no words," Jaskier wriggled back against Geralt, who was now rock hard against the small of his back where he had slipped down. "Now I want to watch Eskel fuck you senseless on that rug. I purchased it especially for that purpose."

"Hmm. Thought that was the one upstairs…" Geralt was still petting him and making no effort to move, so Jaskier stiffly extracted himself and fell into the couch cushion at his side.

"No. That one is for spring-Geralt. I know how sensitive your skin gets, and I'm looking forward to watching you writhe on it like a wanton pixie…"

Geralt had been called many, _many_ things in his long life. Wanton pixie was a new one. His masculine pride made a bleat of protest in the back of his head and it clearly showed on his face, but Jaskier just quirked a brow at him. "Shush, you know you will, and it will be beautiful." 

Eskel was watching the exchange intently, and now grew impatient. He leaned up, grabbed Geralt by the front of the shirt, and hauled him bodily onto the floor with a scant grunt of effort. He pinned him on his back with a fierce kiss that tasted of Jaskier and Geralt snagged his hips to grind up against him with a pleased growl. There was always an additional feral urgency when Eskel was involved; Jaskier was all tender kisses and sweet words that made Geralt melt into bliss, and Eskel, now without fear of rejection, was demanding hands and teeth that set him on fire. The two were worlds apart, but… _fuck_ were they good.

Those rough hands divested him of his clothes with urgency, bare skin explored with lips and fingertips, and Geralt ran his own palms over broad shoulders and knotted scarring with gleeful abandon. It was only when he rolled over onto all fours and presented that Eskel took pause. Wintering at Kaer Morhen meant hasty, passionate trysts under the blankets in hopes of fending off the cold, but here in Oxenfurt it could be different. Eskel could pause and admire the flicker of firelight across Geralt's pale skin, the way his muscles rolled and flexed as he shifted expectantly… and the pulchritudinous curve of his ass and thighs coated in slick. "Hmm. This is a new one." He slid his forefinger over a scar that wrapped Geralt's hip. It was still reddish in colour and raised, not long healed. His other hand dipped inside his trousers and pulled his length out, his thumb gliding over the top from the base.

"Ulfhedinn," Jaskier commented quietly, openly ogling Eskel’s hand as it tended to his erection. “It got lucky with its initial attack.”

"Been to Skellige this season then?"

"Eskel, _really_?" Geralt twisted, glancing over his shoulder in frustration, and growling irritably when he saw that smug look. Eskel loved this little power play; Geralt gagging for it, and he just kneels there cataloguing his scars and contracts, massive cock in his hand as flippantly as if it were a fucking whetstone. “Any time this side of Yuletide…” 

Eskel kicked his trousers away, idly pumping himself still while he fondled between Geralt's legs, using the liberal lubrication to glide his hand over the base of his cock and balls. Geralt bucked into the attention, but the frustrated growl demanded more. Jaskier had sprawled on his side, propping his head up on the heel of his hand and a knee raised. The display on the rug had already made him half hard again, but he was too intent on studying every inch of his two lovers to attend to it. _How had he got so lucky?_

Eskel nudged Geralt's knees further apart, forcing him down onto his elbows and hooked a hip up towards him. He preferred it when Geralt arched low to the ground; it just allowed him to get deeper. His cock pressed inside with one, unrelenting thrust that made Geralt gasp and knead the rug beneath him. Eskel ground himself into Geralt’s ass with a low, possessive rumble, fingers biting into his hip when Geralt tried to pull away from the stimulation; so deep, so all-consuming; Geralt’s body shuddered. Eskel just purred at him, “No, you want to be demanding, then you take what you’re given.” 

Jaskier grinned and rolled onto his back, head still tilted to watch Eskel drive into Geralt mercilessly. He sacrificed speed so that Geralt felt every inch of him draw out and sink in with each thrust, and soon the White Wolf was panting and quaking from the delicious torture of it. His orgasm floated on the peripheral of consciousness, growing in intensity but still abstract. It felt so good, but he needed _pace_ . “ _Eskel..._ ” 

“Hmm?”

“Don’t… make me beg… _fuck._ ” Another deep thrust and Geralt bit his own forearm, leaving shallow indents when he pulled away to sink his face into the rug. “ _Please, Eskel.”_ Voice gravelly and raw, it made Jaskier’s toes curl and he jutted his chin to Eskel. _Don’t leave our lovely omega waiting after he begged you so sweetly, now._

Eskel undid Geralt in a matter of minutes, dropping a hand forward only briefly to touch Geralt’s length to ease him along. Jaskier always admired the way Witchers could be thickly muscled and powerful, but move with all the fluidity and grace of an elven rogue, and as a result Eskel was able to drive into Geralt with an enviable force and speed that left him stuttering and clawing at the fur beneath him. He came with a low groan, and then had to cling on for dear life until Eskel reached his release and knotted deep inside him. The Witcher bent over his mate and licked at the sheen of sweat beading on his back, enjoying the way his body shivered and gripped around him still. 

Jaskier slid from the couch and sat down, cross-legged at Geralt’s head. He tucked a finger under his chin and lifted him up for a kiss, slow and sultry. His back arched and pushed him back onto Eskel’s cock, eliciting a low, keening whine in the back of his throat. When Eskel finally withdrew, Geralt sprawled on his front, Jaskier reached up to grab a pillow for him to rest his head on and the Witcher sighed, content. 

“So, this party, then.” Jaskier stroked his fingers over the mop of white hair in front of him, and Geralt just grumbled something incoherent.

Eskel was cleaning himself off on his shirt - a shirt that was going in the damn bin later - and sat back on his heels. “And how is the population of Oxenfurt going to react when two Witchers turn up at their winter celebrations? We’re all meant to be tucked safely away, hibernating.” He rolled his eyes at the idea. 

“Population of Oxenfurt be damned. You own property here, you have as much right to attend the public events as they do. You’re both going. I don’t want to hear any more belly-aching on the subject.”

“Speaking of…” Geralt rolled onto his back, a slight grimace as his rear-end reminded him of the exact dimensions of Eskel’s cock with a light twinge. “Thought you said you bought some cheese and bread with that wine.”

“Do you _ever_ stop eating? Is he like this all year?” Eskel blinked, examining Geralt’s toned form with fresh surprise. 

Jaskier sighed. “Yes. All year. I expect him to just pick cattle up and take a bite the way his stomach grumbles sometimes.”

“High maintenance in every facet of your life, eh, Geralt?” Eskel unfurled to his feet and disappeared, still naked, to the kitchen.

Geralt smirked. _Damn straight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing W3 on Death March and feel like I'm quaffing rabbit haunches, cheese wheels and bread like there's no tomorrow. Figured 'Death March' is the closest to Geralt's reality... soo...


	8. Tailor-Made

"You have nothing. Literally… _nothing._ "

"Not all of us spend our time fraternising with royalty and sorceresses, Jaskier. I have what I need." Eskel folded his arms and grunted in irritation as the bard pawed through his belongings. 

"Yes, I realise that, but even Geralt had a neat pair of trousers and a dress shirt when I met him. I can't find a single item of clothing here that isn't torn or patched up. _Badly_ , I might add… sewing is not your forte, my love."

Jaskier sat back on his heels and ran his fingers back over his head in exasperation. It was two days until the celebration, and Eskel happened to mention over breakfast, jokingly, that he had nothing to wear so should probably stay home. Jaskier had not taken this in jest and immediately surged upstairs to seek proof. Geralt entered the bedroom tentatively, as if walking into an active battlefield, and attempted to arbitrate. "I'm sure some of my clothes will fit, Jaskier."

"No, no. Your body shapes are different. Eskel is thicker at the waist for a start, it would pinch and hang baggy in all the wrong places."

Eskel dropped his hands quickly to his waist to check, growling and batting at Geralt when he walked by and jabbed him playfully in the stomach. "Fine. I will go and… buy some new ones."

"Yes. _We_ will. I'll take you to my tailor." The bard rose to his feet, waving at the pile of Eskel's clothes dismissively.

"That's really not--."

"If I let you go alone, you'll come back with something utilitarian, poorly fitted and in _black_ . As good for slaying a forktail in as fading into the background at a party. _No._ I am coming, you will listen to my advice… and I would wipe that smirk off your face, Geralt of Rivia, because you're coming too. You've lost some weight since last season and your green doublet will look like a tent." Jaskier left the room, muttering about Witchers and their fashion sense, and Geralt grimaced as Eskel stooped down to recover his clothes, also grumbling. "Thicker at the fucking waist…"

"I think your waist is very--."

"Fuck off, Geralt."

***

Jaskier took them across town to a tall, elegant building with windows full of colour. The two Witchers exchanged a glance as they stood peering at a swathe of cloth hanging from an ornate wooden bust. _Why were they doing this again?_ Oh yes, because it made Jaskier happy. Every time he spoke of this party, of escorting Geralt and Eskel through the door, his blue eyes shone and his face broke into a dazzling smile. He practically glowed. It was an unspoken agreement that neither needed to directly acknowledge; they were doing it for their bard.

"Francis? Ahh, Francis!" Jaskier spread his arms in enthusiastic greeting, and the tailor looked happy to see his client. When he spotted the two Witchers looming between the sunbeams slanting through the windows, he startled so suddenly that the tub of dress pins in his hands fell to the floor and scattered between the boards.

"Fear not, Francis, my man. These fine gentlemen are with me. They may look like rogues in their current rags, but I assure they are of esteemable character," he glanced at Geralt in warning, rightfully predicting the sarcastic comment brewing in his head. The Witcher remained obediently quiet, so Jaskier continued. "They require a rushed order, I'm afraid. For the Yuletide celebration."

The tailor nodded and listened as Jaskier outlined his thoughts; broad shoulders needed to be emphasised, narrowed waists defined, would be nice to have their collarbones, and maybe some chest, on show as they were both very regal - Eskel snorted at this and received a scolding look - but not sure on the colour. _Anything but black_. Now that he had been assured neither Geralt or Eskel were about to rip his head off, the tailor looked at them with a speculative eye.

"Hmm, this one… blue," he murmured, his southern accent pronounced as he circled Geralt and glanced him up and down; Geralt wasn't sure whether he was being sized up for clothes or for eating. "And this one…" He reached out for Eskel's cloak, but flinched back when the Witcher's lip twitched in the beginnings of a snarl. Jaskier gave him a stern frown and Eskel huffed an irritable sigh, looking away as he was prodded and poked. The tailor exclaimed suddenly, "Red! Dark though… yes, both deep colours."

Francis took each of the Witchers in turn for their measurements. His hands were surprisingly gentle and warm as he steered them where he wanted. Even when they removed their shirts, he passed no comment on the tapestry of scars, and explained the measurement he needed before he touched them. It was like he sensed their unease and wanted to give assurance. A rarity given most people would sooner spit on a Witcher than care about their comfort, but it was an adjustment that earned him ready compliance from both.

With his numbers written down, he disappeared into a back room with a piece of charcoal and a sketchpad. Jaskier fell into an armchair to wait. "The man's a genius. You won't even need to have it adjusted, I guarantee it. Not the cheapest, but… oh, Geralt, don't scowl at me. My treat. And we can keep the outfit in Oxenfurt so it doesn't get all covered in dirt and viscera." 

It took the tailor only half an hour to mock up his drawings. When he reappeared on the shop floor, he approached Geralt first, who only waved him away towards Jaskier; Eskel dipped his head in agreement. Best to defer to the expert. The bard beamed with pride as he was handed such responsibility - in his eyes - and perused the drawings, tapping his chin and occasionally hmm-ing and ahh-ing. "This needs to be tapered more, and I would like this to be… higher. These need to be sturdy, they won’t wear anything they can actually feel the ground in. Hmm. Yes, perfect. They will be ready in time?"

"For you, Jaskier, of course! Return before sundown, and we shall ensure everything fits as it should. They shall look finer than princes."

The bard steered them outside and grinned at his morose looking companions. "See? Not so unpleasant, was it?"

"He was surprisingly... respectful," Eskel conceded, but still looked uncomfortable. This was all well out of his element. "Drink?" He tipped his head towards a creaking sign that indicated a tavern. The drunk that got unceremoniously booted out the door a moment later confirmed it.

"Why not? Jaskier's buying." Geralt grumbled and ducked into the dim interior.

"Of course he is." Eskel followed and Jaskier just hoped they were in the mood for mead rather than vodka. 

_They ordered vodka._

***

The following day they lazed around the house for the morning nursing their hangovers, and then in the afternoon Jaskier herded them into a bath. Eskel allowed Geralt to trim his hair and shave him, stealing the occasional kiss or grope as he walked by - “stop fucking doing that or I’ll end up taking an eye out, asshole” - and humming contentedly whenever Geralt’s hands were on him. When it was Geralt’s turn, Eskel easily wicked away the beginnings of his beard, and then took some time to pet his hair. "You know, these snowy locks of yours are such a vanity… I'm surprised you don't get caught up in a set of claws more often."

"Shave them off then." Geralt wasn't looking in the mirror; he was rinsing the razor in the bowl on his lap from where Eskel had shaved his face, and then proceeded to offer it over his shoulder.

Eskel looked briefly taken aback and stroked his fingers through damp tendrils of white rather protectively. When he responded, he sounded personally affronted. " _No,_ " he ran his fingertips over the arch of an ear; Geralt tilted into the caress, and then Eskel pinched his ear lobe as if in punishment for even suggesting he be shorn. "I will brush them though. You look shaggier than a timber wolf most of the time." 

Geralt smirked into the mirror and closed his eyes as Eskel grabbed the brush from Jaskier's dresser. He was gentle and reverent, and Geralt found himself nodding off more than once when the majority of the tangles had been removed. Jaskier peeked into the room at one point, squeaked with pleasure and then busied himself with another task elsewhere in the house; an alpha grooming his mate was an intimate act and Eskel deserved a moment just to himself.

"Did Jaskier just squeak at us?" Geralt asked quietly, cheek propped against his knuckle.

"He did."

A huff of amusement, but the Witcher remained slumped in his chair with his eyes closed, relaxed. Eskel paused to stroke his neck and shoulders and took stock of the absurdity of it all. Geralt was dozing in a chair in front of him, in _their_ house, while they waited for a legitimate tailor to finish making them a new set of clothes, for a party they weren’t gate-crashing for a contract. 

“Eskel?”

“Hmm?”

“Everything alright?”

“Fine… just thinking.”

Geralt groaned. “You do far too much of that. Touch me some more.”

“You’re so fucking needy…”

Geralt didn’t deny it.

As the evening approached, they headed back to the tailor. Francis was true to his word and the two outfits were ready and waiting for them when they returned. "I take this one first." He grabbed Eskel by the elbow and scooped one set of garments into his arms. 

"I don't need your help to get dressed…" The Witcher growled, and Francis swallowed audibly before looking at Jaskier for support.

"Eskel, it's all part of it. He needs to make sure it all hangs correctly, and he can make any adjustments on the go. Let him do his job." Jaskier smiled gently, realising quickly that this whole process was more alien to Eskel than it would be to Geralt, who was relatively used to being poked and prodded by valets… even if not always by his own choice. Thankfully, Geralt encouraged his companion with a brief nod and a shrug of the shoulders.

Eskel huffed and allowed himself to be led away. He shed his cloak, shirt and trousers himself and then accepted the offered assistance begrudgingly. When he looked in the mirror, the tailor still buzzing around and muttering as he tugged and shimmied cloth over skin, Eskel was startled. 

The colour of the jerkin was a deep claret; the collar and the hem were edged in gold, and a black belt cinched in at his waist, the end tucked in and then folded neatly over the top next to the golden buckle. The jerkin itself stopped short of his elbows, revealing the pure white of the dress shirt that had been cut to sit close his forearms; none of this billowing foppery that Eskel had seen nobles display. Breeches were black, complemented by a sturdy pair of black leather boots with tall, golden buckles at the outside of the calf. It had the deep neckline that Jaskier had requested, and the collar sat upright and framed his jaw. If it weren't for the state of his face, Eskel mused, he might actually pass for handsome.

"You like?" The tailor was staring at him, hands planted on his hips. Eskel plucked at the cuffs and dipped his head in a nod. The clothes fit... perfectly. They weren't hand-me-downs from a long dead Witcher, or hastily stolen off a corpse and rinsed in a river; they had been made for him specifically, and they hugged his form in all the right places. Francis beamed. "Good, good… and next." He ushered Eskel out.

Geralt was examining an odd looking hat at Jaskier's side when Eskel emerged, and they looked up at the same time. Predictably, the bard cooed and beamed in appreciation, but it was Geralt's reaction that preened Eskel's ego the most. The White Wolf's pupils blew wide instantly and his lips parted; Francis had to take him by the wrist and pull him towards the dressing room when he remained rooted in place for too long, but Geralt couldn't drag his eyes away. Jaskier leaned up and whispered in Eskel's ear. "I think he rather fancies you, you know." 

Eskel's lips twitched into a small smile, playing along. "Do you think I have a chance? He's rather good-looking."

"Ooh, I would say so. Those were definitely bedroom eyes," Jaskier dropped a hand and grabbed Eskel's ass, absolutely shameless. "Besides, you're rather dashing yourself."

Geralt emerged after a bit of rustling and preening, tugging at the hem of his jerkin. His outfit mirrored Eskel's in all but colour; midnight blue, lined with silver down to the complementing buckles. Francis waved his hands in triumph. "Mwah. The sun and the moon; night and day… different, but neither can exist without the other… Neither can be _defined_ without the other. Eh?" He elbowed Jaskier, and raised his eyebrows in search of approval. 

The bard felt rather breathless. Even a complete stranger had sensed it, this remarkable connection between the two, and reproduced that spiritual link in the materials of his trade. "Stunning." He yearned to touch, to smooth his palms over those broad shoulders and lap at exposed collarbones and jawlines. _Fuck_. He was going to enjoy removing those jerkins later. Jaskier stayed his hands by shoving them into his pockets. "Now… about payment…" 

"Of course. Step right this way!"

As Jaskier stepped behind the counter to hand over the crowns, Geralt stood in front of Eskel and continued the enamoured inspection from earlier. "You look…"

"...pretty good, right? Shame about…" Eskel gestured towards his face with a vague flutter of his hand and looked at the floor, feeling momentarily bare despite the multiple layers. 

Geralt bared his teeth. "Don't. Don't keep doing that to yourself. I…" He looked at the tailor; Jaskier flicked them a quick glance, and gave a tilt of the head. _Pleasant man, bit of a gossip._

Instead, Geralt lifted his hand and placed it over Eskel's heart. On the outside it was a perfectly platonic gesture, but with the fire burning in his eyes visible only to Eskel his meaning was clear. Eskel smiled and gave Geralt that same bashful look he had at Kaer Morhen four years ago, and it took all of Geralt's self control not to shove him up against the wall and place kisses all over it.

They left the tailor's shop and returned home briefly to drop off their old clothes, and gather an extra layer. The darkening sky threatened more snow, and Geralt ensured Jaskier took a heavy woollen cloak to guard against the cold. "Oh, stop fussing like a mother hen, I have managed to survive nearly fifty winters without freezing to death…"

"And this isn't going to be the winter you do." Geralt popped Jaskier's collar and secured the ties at his collarbone, before gesturing for the bard to lead the way. Surprisingly, Jaskier left his lute behind.


	9. Yule Tidings (E)

The university hosted the event. Every year they opened one of their huge banquet halls, and the custodians spared no expense. The opulence of the decoration and the quality of the food was equal only to the calibre of clientele that it attracted; there wasn’t a single nobleman from a hundred mile radius of the city that wasn’t in attendance. A huge conifer tree took pride of place in the centre of the room, adorned with streamers and baubles that glittered in the light of a thousand candles. Wreaths of holly and ribbons of red, gold and green hung from the ceiling and walls, and the tables were laden with food, mulled wine and ale. At the far end of the hall a band played jaunty tunes to encourage revelry, behind them sat a lavish piano forte, currently unoccupied and inert.

Jaskier beamed as they stepped into the warmth and their cloaks were removed from them by a small, round man dressed in university colours. The steward did a double-take when he caught the glimmer of gold in Geralt's eyes, but politely swallowed his question and scuttled away. Eskel grabbed two flagons of ale from a nearby table and pushed them into the hands of his companions, before dipping back to grab one for himself. "Bit of liquid courage can't go amiss."

It quickly became apparent that everyone knew Jaskier. Geralt and Eskel barely had time to enjoy their drinks while answering the well meaning questions of Jaskier's hundreds of acquaintances. One professor in particular engaged Eskel's attention for some time. "Don't worry, my lad. Plenty of young men have come back with grievous injuries. They are a mark of honour and sacrifice… nothing to be ashamed of at all. Those are some striking eyes you have there, though, quite extraordinary," he patted Eskel's arm. "Now, regarding your question about astronomy…" Eskel didn't have the heart to tell the jovial academic that 'young' was a bit far off the mark, or that the scars on his face were caused by his cowardice rather than his bravery, so he sat and enjoyed the company and conversation. 

Geralt, meanwhile, had to retell the same damn sylvan story at least eight times to eight different groups of rapt scholars. It became increasingly tiresome as the evening progressed. "No, no sylvans are actually very peaceful… they don't tend to gore with horns… no, there were only really a few elves, and they beat the crap out of me… Jaskier didn't really lose any tee--."

"Ahh, Geralt, yes very good, may I borrow him gentlemen? Thank you." Jaskier yanked the Witcher over to a quiet corner, and turned to berate him. "Geralt, stop butchering your own legend."

"Jaskier, I can't hear that song anymore. It’s been nearly twenty years. Sometimes I catch myself humming it," he knocked back a mouthful of ale, and rubbed a hand over his face. "Sometimes you sing it in my _dreams_. I need to kill it. Let me kill it." He reached to the left and picked up another drink from a passing waiter.

The bard pinched the bridge of his nose. "You currently _live_ in the proceeds made by that song," he heaved a sigh. "Just… try to ham it up a little bit. Maybe talk about your last season? They're all entranced by you two. Remember, they read about you and your monsters in books. Every scar on your body is evidence that those tales are more than just conjecture." Someone called Jaskier from the stage, and the bard looked round with a rueful smile. "Ahh, if you excuse me, they get me to do this every year…"

Geralt watched Jaskier go and threw himself into a chair near Eskel. The other was still deep in conversation, but that petered out as soon as the bard depressed the first note on the piano forte, because the professor swivelled eagerly in his seat to face the stage. Jaskier’s beautiful tenor and the flutter of his fingers over the ivory keys permeated the hall and the audience waited through the first verse with bated breath.

> _“Here we come a-wassailing,  
>  Among the leaves so green,  
>  Here we come a wanderin’,  
>  So fair to be seen.”_

The revelers chimed in with the chorus, steins held high as they bellowed out the lyrics, horrendously out of tune as many were already well and truly on their way to a beast of a hangover in the morning.

> _"Love and joy come to you,  
>  And to you and your wassail too,  
>  And gods bless you and send you,  
>  A happy new year.  
>  And gods send you a happy new year."_

Jaskier’s smile glittered in his eyes even as he sang, and he twisted on the bench so that he could see his Witchers from his position on the stage. They were both watching him intently, and as he ploughed through the verses, each one punctuated by another rousing chorus, his heart fluttered when he saw them pick up the words. Geralt wrapped an arm around Eskel’s shoulders and was laughing at him as he stumbled over the unfamiliar phrases in between mouthfuls of ale.

> _"Our wassail cup is made,  
>  Of rosemary tree,  
>  And so is your beer,  
>  Of the best barley._
> 
> _We are not daily beggars,  
>  That beg from door to door,  
>  But we are neighbours’ children,  
>  Who you have seen before._
> 
> _Good master and good mistress,  
>  As you sit by the fire,  
>  Pray think of us poor children,  
>  Are wandering in the mire._
> 
> _Call up the butler of this house,_  
>  Put on his golden ring;  
>  Let him bring us a glass of beer,  
>  And the better we shall sing."

As the final note faded beneath the applause, Jaskier bowed gracefully and left the stage. His cheeks were flushed when he returned to Geralt; Eskel had headed off in search of a refill.

“You do that every year?”

“Yes. The last ten anyway. I am a rather sought after commodity around here… thanks to you. Oh, and not many people can play the piano.” Jaskier grinned.

Geralt toasted him and leaned back to look for Eskel. The Witcher was returning with another drink when a young nobleman deliberately and violently barged into his shoulder. Unfortunately for said aristocrat, he had just tried to walk into a Witcher, and so _he_ was the one who ended up staggering back in alarm. Eskel looked at him with a deadpan stare and nonchalantly took a sip from his tankard.

“Apologise, cretin.” The nobleman blustered.

“Hmm. I think you’ll find you walked into me.”

Geralt rose to his feet and Jaskier followed. 

“I think not,” the aristocrat sneered, sizing his chosen opponent up now that he was closer. He could be no older than twenty years, and was accompanied by two others that mirrored his disparaging glare. This was more about posturing and reputation gain than personal affront. They had chosen Eskel because he had been quiet all evening and more interested in talking with old scholars than carousing and womanising his way around the hall; an easy target, surely. But the shove had not had the desired enraging effect. “Hm. Not really worth my time to pursue this. You’ve clearly been unlucky enough in life anyway… face only a mother could love.”

Jaskier shook with indignant anger and moved forward to intervene, but Geralt held out a hand. Wait. Eskel was not a damsel in distress. He did not need _saving_ from this. Not when he had endured similar bullshit all his life; it was important to allow him to exact whatever pound of flesh he desired.

Eskel raised a brow. “Yours certainly did when it was between her legs last night.” 

The nobleman stopped, turned and scowled. “What?”

“Yeah, I’d show you the love bites she left behind when she returned the favour, but polite company and all that.”

“How _dare_ you--.”

Eskel finished his drink in several gulps and placed it down heavily on a nearby table. He reached into his shirt and pulled out his medallion to lay over the top of his jerkin, before taking two measured strides forward and staring the nobleman dead in the eye; it was only fair to give him plenty of warning. This really wouldn’t be a fair fight. “I dare. Do you?” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble, his lip twitching in a barely contained snarl. The boy - for that was all he really was - looked from those amber eyes down to the wolf-emblazoned medallion on Eskel’s chest and swallowed loudly.

“You’re… you’re meant to be…”

“Tucked up in my lair? Yeah. Thought I’d stretch my legs. Ran out of infant blood and virgins to keep me occupied for the winter.”

The nobleman blanched. “You wretched creature…”

“Quite. Now piss off.”

He didn’t need telling twice. The offending aristocrat turned stiffly and stomped away. Jaskier moved forward now. The joviality had been sapped from the evening, and it was growing late anyway. Suddenly their bed and a warm fire felt more appetising than another round of drinks. “We’re done here. Come on, let’s go home.” Geralt allowed his hand to brush discreetly across Eskel’s as he walked by, and the Witcher followed with a dour expression on his face.

***

They had barely reached the short flight of stairs leading to the main street before they were accosted once more. The young nobleman, with his entourage of admirers and henchmen at his shoulder now, sneered at their backs as they walked away; posturing beta males trying to establish the upper hand when their position looked secure. “Yes… that’s what I thought. Take your shitty, two-bit bard and go plough your whore of a mother, Witcher bastard.”

Geralt turned first and took a step towards the offending blaggard who, with some good sense, took a corresponding step away. His fists were already flexing in preparation and his upper lip flickered as he moderated the aggression that surged from his chest. To an outsider, he would look somewhat placid, but Jaskier could practically smell the rage rolling off him. Eskel paused, and heaved a sigh, gazing down at the bard’s rather wounded expression; unlike a Witcher, Jaskier wore his emotions on his sleeve. _Two-bit bard indeed_. “Geralt, please confirm something for me.”

“Yes, Eskel?”

“Did they just insult our bard?”

“They did.”

“And our mothers, whom we have honestly never met, but assume are honourable and righteous ladies?”

“Indeed.”

“Well. That simply cannot stand,” he turned slowly on his heel as Geralt’s knuckles cracked with the pressure of the fists they clenched into. “Choice?”

“Five on the left.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rubbed his face and folded his arms. This could be fixed with a little bit of Axii sprinkled liberally around, but actually these little shits deserved the beating they were about to get. One of the nearby professors that had gathered for the spectacle, his white beard plaited over his corpulent stomach, leaned in. “I don’t like their odds. It’s… what, ten against two?”

The bard huffed a laugh. The man had clearly never seen a Witcher in action. He truly believed all his reading around the subject to be a matter of legend only, even having seen those amber eyes and the savage scars they bore from battling these allegedly mythical monsters. His ignorance needed to be punished. “Oh really? What odds would you like to propose, dear scholar?”

“Fifty crowns on the young lads.”

“Fift--… fifty crowns? I meet you, but betting on the Witchers, of course.” They shook on it.

Said academic realised his grave mistake when Geralt lithely dodged beneath a belligerent swing for his head, and retaliated with a decisive uppercut so hard that teeth littered the cobblestones around the unconscious victim. Jaskier smirked. When Geralt indulged in some of the unarmed fighting rings on their travels, he always pulled his punches and made a show of dodging and diving, even taking a few hits; a bit of theatre, he had told Jaskier once, pushed the wagers up and increased the winner’s purse. But his brutal efficiency here betrayed his ire and he dispatched the offending noblemen with extreme prejudice. Most alphas would be mortified to have their omega defending their honour, but watching his two Witchers exact penance from the foul-mouthed young noblemen just made Jaskier a bit hot under the collar. 

Eskel met his first and broke the man’s wrist across his forearm with a sickening crack; the scream of pain cut short only by an elbow to the temple that knocked him to the floor. The two Witchers were a blur of fluid movement, ducking and weaving effortlessly around the attempted punches.. It was laughable, really. They dispatched a further two apiece before the fight began to evaporate from the remains of the entourage. Broken ribs, jaws and arms would be a painful reminder to mind their manners and their mouths when in good company. 

Geralt’s fourth pulled a knife from inside his doublet and Geralt caught his wrist with an irritated huff, dropped down onto his knee and broke the man’s elbow backwards across his thigh, before promptly fracturing his jaw with an upward flick of his own elbow. He stayed kneeling, because his fifth pissed himself and scarpered away. 

_They hadn’t even broken a sweat._

Eskel stooped and wiped his hands on one of the groaning bodies on the floor, before patting Geralt on the back of the shoulder and indicating they should get going. Jaskier wordlessly held out a hand and a pouch of coins descended into it. He weighed it up in his palm, huffed and turned to follow his companions home.

***

Later, sprawled in a bath with Geralt, Eskel sighed. “That was foolish. Their fathers will want to exact some revenge for that beating…” They weren’t dirty necessarily, but the ritual of bathing smoothed out the sour taste the end of their evening had left behind. Jaskier had taken great pleasure in stripping away their finery, and placed gentle kisses across their hands and knuckles in reverence.

Jaskier huffed a laugh from where he knelt down at the edge of the bath now, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and chin resting on bare forearms. He kept shuffling in discomfort. “I wouldn’t worry. That group is renowned for their foul mouths and tempers. I am certain their fathers will be pleased they’ve had some sense and humility beaten into them, even with the added cost of a bit of dentistry. Was the infant blood and virginal sacrifice really necessary?”

Eskel grinned. “Got to keep the mythos going. Good for business.”

“Hmm. Also good for getting run out of town in a hail of stones…” Jaskier sighed.

Geralt was watching Jaskier intently. He tilted towards him and his nostrils twitched as he scented the air, when he leaned back again he sprawled his arms across the edges of the tub, amused. “You’re turned on. You have been since we left the street...”

“Of course I bloody am. Do you even see yourselves when you’re beating the ever loving shit out of something? It’s like a force of nature. You were snapping bones and busting faces, and all I could think about was those same hands gripping my hips and cock. I nearly came in the street. Now hurry up, I want to be in you and have him in my mouth, and I’m growing impatient.” 

"You should know better than to rush a Witcher in the bath." Eskel grumbled, but he could already sense the shift in Geralt; the excited hum below his skin caused by the attention of his alpha. It was less pronounced outside of spring, more a subtle ripple of desire rather than a tidal wave of desperate need, and Eskel knew he had time to tease it out. Jaskier, however, started to pull his clothes off and cast them onto the floor. 

“If you won’t get out, then I’m getting in. I’ve wanted in under those clothes since you put them on,” As Geralt had predicted, he was already hard and wasted no time in joining his mates in the tub; he hopped over the edge and the Witchers hastily spread their knees to the sides to accommodate him. “By Emhyr’s shrivelled _bollocks_ , this is hotter than the _sun_. I forgot how you like to _burn_ the dirt off.” Jaskier’s skin flushed red with the heat, and he hissed as he moved. He shifted stiffly to sit between Eskel’s thighs and lounge up against his chest; Witchers made the best armchairs.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you.” Jaskier nuzzled his head up into Eskel’s jaw, while his fingers tickled down his forearms, eliciting a pleasing collection of goosebumps. “Mmm. Is that all for me?” He shimmied back against the rapidly growing hardness pressing into his tailbone, and Eskel grumbled.

“You reek of desire. It’s a bit difficult to ignore…” 

“ _Reek_? Oh, be still my beating heart… we need to work on your bedroom talk.”

Geralt was idly circling a finger on the surface of the water, his knees tucked up closer to allow the bard to sprawl comfortably. He tilted his head to the side and allowed his eyes to wander over his lovers with abandon. Content to bask in the mix of their scents beneath the perfumes and bath salts Jaskier insisted on tipping into the water, his eyes slid partially closed. He measured his breathing and fell almost unwittingly into his meditative state. His senses focused on the pleasant sounds and aromas that permeated the air around him; the thrum of their hearts, Eskel's slow and heavy, Jaskier's fluttering against his rib cage in excitement; the deep, heady musk of two alphas coiled around each other; the brush of Eskel's calf against his, soft in the heat of the water. He must have looked completely spaced, because both were gazing at him when he finally looked up from the middle distance. "What?"

"I… don't think I've ever seen you look so… soft." Jaskier murmured quietly, almost in wonder. "Who knew, let you beat the snot out of some noblemen and then relax in a bath. Quite the self care routine. I'll keep that in mind when you're ready to rip my head off next summer. Pretty sure I will be able to rustle up a suitable aristocrat in most main towns..."

"Is he really that bad?" Eskel shifted up in the bath. 

"You have no idea. I thought the ability to sulk was a Witcher mutation for the first four years of our acquaintance."

Geralt rolled his eyes and stood up. He was still half hard despite the chastisement, and Jaskier nudged Eskel with his elbow. Bath time was over now, right? Eskel nodded and Jaskier unfurled. After the heat of the bath, the room felt chilly despite the fire crackling away in the grate and he quickly wrapped himself in the towel Geralt tossed at him. 

Jaskier flopped onto the bed on his back, head tilted off the edge upside down so he could watch the Witchers pad about the room. Geralt tied his hair away from his face and had his back to Eskel when he approached and threaded his arms around his waist. The kisses he placed over Geralt's shoulders and neck were open mouthed and hungry, and it didn't take him long to tempt Geralt over to the bed. The White Wolf disappeared from Jaskier's sight and Eskel stood at his head; his thumb smoothed down the arch of Jaskier's throat, while his other hand coaxed his own cock to fullness. "Still want a taste, little lark?" 

"Fuck, _yes_." Jaskier nodded probably a little too eagerly - who the fuck cared, really - and Eskel's hand ran under his neck to tilt his head further back. He guided his cock into the bard's mouth, but kept a thumb on his throat to feel the ripple of his head sinking into it. Eskel rocked his hips in that graceful roll he was so good at, fucking slowly into his mouth and Jaskier snatched the blankets either side of him. He could feel Geralt's hands on his thighs, and then smoothing up his length in a firm glide. His skin prickled in the cold, but Geralt quickly chased away the chill with his lips and teeth and Jaskier moaned around Eskel, causing that steady pace to stutter briefly. 

Geralt lapped at Jaskier's cock and nuzzled into his hip; the scent alone was making him wet, and as he sat up to watch Eskel, his expression wrecked, his stomach twisted with need. Geralt straddled Jaskier's hips and sank down onto him with a rumble of pleasure. He tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, and Eskel was pretty fucking sure Geralt had no idea just how good he looked like that; lower lip between his teeth, lithe muscles flexing and rolling as he ground himself down onto Jaskier with complete abandon. When the bard's hands nudged his hips lightly, Eskel withdrew and looked down at swollen lips and watering eyes. "If you keep fucking my throat like that, I'll never sing again…" A wry grin, before he followed Eskel's gaze. "By the Gods, _Geralt_."

Jaskier sat up and took one pale nipple in his mouth, hands gripping those graceful hips as they demanded their release. The Witcher's fingers gripped in his hair and Jaskier felt the growl vibrating in his chest under his lips. "Hmm. Off, on all fours, now." His omega obeyed wordlessly and that alone sent a thrill right down to Jaskier's groin. The bard beckoned to Eskel and pulled the Witcher up behind him as he lined up with Geralt. "Fuck me while I take him… I want it deep and slow." 

The bard pushed Geralt into a deep arch and took him again; Eskel sat back on his heels to tease and stretch Jaskier with his fingers. When Eskel's hand dipped between his legs and smoothed some of Geralt's slick back up the cleft of his ass, Jaskier thought it would wreck him. Calloused fingers stroked over the base of Jaskier's cock and the edges of Geralt's entrance, his broad palm fondling and massaging as Jaskier ground deep into his omega. "Eskel, fuck…" Geralt moaned as the added stimulation made him weak. He reached between his own thighs to match Jaskier's pace on his erection, and panted desperately as he drew close.

The press of Eskel's head was almost too much. It stretched Jaskier beyond what he had ever taken, but he bore down a little further with each successive rock of his hips into Geralt, until Eskel was burying deep inside him every time he drew back. Slow and deep was exactly what he got, and Jaskier's orgasm built almost lazily, pushed to crescendo only when Geralt's body shuddered and clenched around him in climax. He hadn't counted on Eskel lasting, but of course he did, and Jaskier was gasping and begging by the time the Witcher came. The grip of Eskel's rough hands on his hips drew him back hard, and Jaskier was filled with the slow, warm heat of his release. 

"Ahh, _fuck_ … you knotted." Jaskier tried to shift, but stopped abruptly. Geralt chuckled and stretched happily beneath him, while Eskel placed gentle kisses across the back of Jaskier's shoulders.

"Sorry, I… should have pulled out, I just…"

"Wanted to come deep inside me."

"Hmm." 

"Good at controlling your bite, but possessive in other ways." Jaskier was too blissed out to care, and, if he were honest, he could understand why Geralt enjoyed this part so much. To be utterly filled by your mate, locked together as the final shockwaves dissipated, replaced by tender kisses and soft words… it was beautiful. 

Eskel withdrew gently when it was time and rolled onto his back. "Jaskier…"

When the bard looked round, he saw the Witcher baring his throat and gave a soft laugh. "You don't need to submit to me, my love. You knotted, you didn't tear a chunk off. _Relax_..." He placed a kiss on Geralt's back, and shuffled over to nuzzle one onto Eskel's chest. "Come on, I'm exhausted… round two will have to wait until morning."

Jaskier curled up on Eskel's left, and Geralt sprawled over his chest from the right. Eskel fell asleep running his fingers through the soft, snowy white hair he adored so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of history surrounding the Wassail Song. Before caroling, people would go round 'wassailing'. The author of the song is unknown (otherwise I would have credited), but it has been covered loads. The process of wassailing has existed since the 12th century in England, and many other similar traditions have existed around Europe.


	10. Practice (E)

Jaskier awoke to the faint sound of grunting. _They really were ridiculously virile, weren’t they?_ When he opened his eyes he hoped to see the two Witchers wrapped in each other, and so he was disappointed when he rolled over and the room was empty. "Huh." The noise of exertion continued after a brief pause, but now he was awake he could pin-point it better. _It was coming from outside_. 

A blanket wrapped lazily about his shoulders, Jaskier shuffled to the window and peered down into the courtyard below. The house shared an outdoor area with three other dwellings and in the summer it would be full of colour and sweet smelling flowers, but the winter had left it empty and drab. The Witchers had shovelled away the majority of the snow from the frozen ground, and in the centre of the space, Eskel was propped up on toes and hands and lowering himself to the floor in steady, measured dips. However, the crowning piece of brilliance was Geralt, who sat cross-legged on Eskel’s back with a bottle of wine in his hand. His core kept him balanced even as the other Witcher shifted his feet, and leaned forward into the next press up. Jaskier chuckled, and cracked the window to listen.

"How many am I on, Geralt?"

"One hundred and fifty."

" _Fuck, really?_ I must have broken two hundred, surely..."

"Hmm. You know the drill. One for each of Vesemir's birthdays."

"How many is that?"

Geralt took a swig from his bottle, and considered the back of Eskel's head with a calculating smirk. "At least six hundred."

Eskel groaned. "It was four hundred and thirty... five minutes ago."

"You know Vesemir, timeless…"

"You're enjoying this too much."

"Hmm. Yes."

"And who drinks fucking wine at eight o'clock in the morning?"

"Don't nag me. Keep going. I want breakfast at some point before sunset," he shifted and Eskel grunted with the effort of keeping him balanced; Geralt ruffled a hand through the mop of black hair in front of him. "You know, I prefer you a bit more portly anyway…" 

"Right, that's it." Eskel dropped onto his chest and rolled. Geralt flailed as he was thrown off - Jaskier had never seen him flail so this was a special occasion - and lost his bottle of wine as it shattered on the icy cobblestones. One bare arm wrapped about his neck to bring him into a tight headlock, securing him to Eskel’s chest as he seethed. "Take it back."

Geralt thrashed, kicking his heels into the ice and snow, and wrapped both hands around Eskel’s forearm as he tried to gain the upperhand. He managed to force Eskel over onto his back, but only ended up face-down in the snow again when his momentum was used against him. In the end, his struggling came to nought and he was forced to admit defeat. One palm drummed against the ground in submission, and he rose onto his hands and knees when Eskel released him. “Asshole…”

“Fucking _portly_ ,” Eskel shot back as he stood, brushing melting ice and snow from his trousers. “Sword work, then breakfast.”

Geralt quirked a brow. “ _Outside?_ But _Eskel_ , what if the children see?”

“ _Geralt…_ ”

The Witcher threw his hands in the air and turned. At this point, he caught sight of Jaskier and flicked his head in greeting. Elbow on the windowsill and chin to one palm, the bard fluttered his fingers down at them. “I do so like watching you play with your swords.”

Eskel looked up incredulously, spreading his arms around him to indicate the public nature of the space they currently occupied, and then Geralt. Said Witcher was smirking as he stooped to pick up their two steel swords from the bundle of equipment near the house. Eskel huffed at Jaskier, “Stop _enabling_ him.”

“He doesn’t _need_ to be enabled, Eskel. He was like this when I found him. If anything, I think he has become less uncouth as the years have passed.” Geralt hummed in agreement, and tossed Eskel’s sword towards him. 

The other caught it by the scabbard in his left hand and grabbed the hilt with his right. He inspected the blade as he drew it out. “Needs some maintenance.” His eyes flickered to his opponent, who stood stoically with his own braced up along the back of his arm, pommel held in reverse. “Signs?”

Geralt smiled wryly and looked at the floor. “The last time you cast Aard at me, you broke three ribs and dislocated my shoulder, _after_ I’d cast Quen.”

“What? You said you were fine.” Eskel stepped forward in concern, before catching himself. It was years ago, decades ago, but it didn’t stop the pang of guilt. The thought that Geralt had stood up, teeth clenched, and brushed it off like it was nothing… and then limped to his bunk in agony rather than seek one of the mages. 

“Of course I did. We were still young, and I’d cut my right hand off before I admitted you were better at it… you left a hole in the wall behind me. ”

Eskel winced, covering his face briefly with his hand as if to smother the memory of it. “No Signs then.”

Geralt shrugged. "Don't cast Igni. You'll burn down Oxenfurt." Eskel’s magical prowess was nothing new. It had only increased as he had aged, thankfully alongside his control, and Geralt’s comment was purely in jest. At least Jaskier hoped it was as he eyed the nearby houses in trepidation.

It was Eskel that opened, spinning his blade up from his side and cutting over Geralt’s chest. The White Wolf ducked and fainted under the first three swings before being forced to counter a stray sweep at his thigh, and another that almost found his shoulder. Jaskier had watched Geralt fight now for decades. Witchers fought with one hand free, and so there was a unique grace to their style that turned combat into a kind of dance with their opponent. Jaskier knew the pattern; the familiar shuffle of Geralt’s feet across the ground and the whistle of the blade as it pirouetted through the air were as familiar to him as those golden eyes and that gravelly voice. And when two Witchers fought? Well, it was like watching two masters waltz, except the speed and precision spoke of music played at a fevered pitch rather than a wistful melody.

Jaskier also knew the difference between Geralt on the defence, unwilling to engage properly with an enemy for whatever reason, and Geralt on the attack. Both stances had a unique rhythm; one light and guarded, the other heated and aggressive. He wasn’t engaging with Eskel. Not properly. He dipped and weaved rather than absorb the strike with his blade if he could, and dismissed those he couldn’t without appropriate counter. Eskel knew it too. So when he broke an opening, dismissing Geralt’s blade from its guard, he smacked Geralt in the face with his free hand. Hard. 

Geralt staggered back, blood trickling from the lip he had just bitten into and the nose that may or may not have broken under Eskel’s knuckles. He lifted his free hand to his face to test the damage, and then spat to the side as the coppery taste overwhelmed his tongue. _Not broken_. He looked at Eskel with wide, questioning eyes, and a glimmer of consternation; it wasn’t the first time one had drawn blood from the other, and it wouldn’t be the last. For a Witcher it was no more than love tap, but Geralt had clearly misunderstood the nature of their bout. As they stood there panting, it was Eskel that broke the silence.

“What are you playing at?” 

“Practice.”

“Practice. Really? You think playing coy with me is practice. And what, Geralt? We sleep, eat and fuck the winter away, only to be savaged by the first forktail we come across because we have allowed ourselves to become complacent. You need to lay off the wine, I think it’s rotting your mind.”

Jaskier saw the attempt to rile for what it was. Geralt, however, clearly did not see through the deception, because his face hardened. When he launched forward this time, there was a malicious aggression in his attacks that hadn’t been there before. He forced Eskel immediately onto the backfoot, countering every swing and dismissing a second fist heading for his face with his free forearm. His brow creased in concentration, his dips and weaves accentuated now with counterattacks that Eskel had to twist and pivot to avoid. They circled around the courtyard, Eskel wary of being backed into a corner and strafing away from errant swings when he could.

It was after one particularly earth-shattering parry that Geralt snatched Eskel’s blade from his hand and kicked his feet from under him. On his knees, Eskel raised his head, and the tip of a steel sword pressed into his throat, the pressure barely shy of cutting into his skin. With an almost delirious smile, he allowed his eyes to roll slowly up Geralt’s body to his face.

“Better…”

“There are _easier_ ways to work up a sweat.” 

“I had forgotten how good you look with a sword in your hand. _Properly_. I wanted to remember.”

“ _What?_ Are you…?” Geralt tilted his head to the side, sword still in place and ran his gaze down to the front of Eskel’s trousers. “ _For fuck’s sake, Eskel_.” Eskel smirked and Geralt dropped the tip of the blade away with an irritable huff. “I’m getting some breakfast. You can wait.” He snatched his scabbard from the floor and left the courtyard for the warmth of the house. 

Jaskier pulled the window closed and grabbed one of the Witcher's shirts from the floor to replace the blanket. He headed down to meet them… and by the time he got there, Eskel had already pulled his shirt over his head, managed to wrestle Geralt's from him too and push him up against a wall. Two wrists pinned above his head, and mouth consumed in a devouring kiss that smeared blood over his lips and chin, Geralt was resistant and growled in warning. Eskel drew back and ran his tongue up the side of Geralt’s neck, tasting the drying sweat left over from their training. “You gonna’ fight me?” Question slurred into the slope of his lover’s shoulder; Geralt snapped his teeth and butted Eskel’s head away from him. 

“That’s a yes.” Jaskier perched himself in an armchair, his legs folded underneath his rear as he considered the two before him. The only way the bard could keep Geralt pinned was with soft kisses and paralysing ecstasy. There would be no containing him if he genuinely wanted to get away… he just never had. But Eskel could manage that raw power without getting torn in half, and no doubt that appealed to the primal omega in the pit of Geralt’s consciousness. A delicious avenue to explore. “I think he needs reminding who his alphas are. Would you like to do the honours?" Jaskier gestured at the floor in front of him.

Eskel released Geralt's wrists, but when he tried to squirm away from the wall, a hand returned to his throat and pushed him back, calloused fingers gripping firmly under his jaw. "No. You stay." One hand now free, Eskel undid the ties at the front of Geralt's trousers and nudged them down his hips. The erection that sprung free was already impressively full, and when Eskel leaned close, he could scent the musk of slick as Geralt's body responded to the authority of his mate, even if his expression was still mutinous.

Geralt's resolve faltered when Eskel's lips returned to his neck, nipping and sucking a trail of possessive bruises beneath the grip of his thumb; he bit down on the appreciative moan and refused to give Eskel the noise that he wanted, even as his insides felt like they were dissolving into liquid. Geralt lifted two palms to shove his mate away. Eskel snarled, and his hand slipped to grip Geralt by the scruff, fingers catching a liberal amount of that snowy white mane, and pulled him from the wall. Trousers wrapped about his knees still, Geralt failed to gain any kind of advantage and Eskel forced him down in front of Jaskier, his head in his lap. 

The whisper of leather through cloth as Geralt tried to push himself up from the armchair, casting Jaskier the same defiant glare. The bard quirked his brows towards his hairline, and then smirked when Eskel kicked Geralt's feet apart, forced him down and wrenched his arms behind his back. There was a brief struggle, but it ended with Eskel's belt securing Geralt's wrists tightly at the base of his spine. "Can't be trusted to be well-behaved and do as you're told." Low and threatening, Eskel undid the front of his trousers and pulled his cock out over the top of the loose ties. He was already full and ready, and dropped to his knees behind his omega. "You're going to beg me for it, Geralt."

"Like fuck I am." The snarled reply sounded convincing, but Jaskier could see the desire glittering in molten irises of gold, and Eskel could hear the way his heart hammered and his breathing hitched when a rough thumb rubbed over his entrance. Eskel gripped the binding of his belt to keep Geralt still and arched as he wanted him, the other wrapping the base of his cock to tease the head down the cleft of Geralt's ass and over the glistening, puckered hole that waited for it. Eskel rocked forwards, but only to slide his length in the crevice of Geralt's thigh and groin, barely grazing against the other's shaft as he did so.

Jaskier watched Geralt's expression falter again, and he stroked a thumb over his lover's lower lip when his mouth gaped open. So beautiful. The bard slid the pad of his thumb over Geralt's tongue, sinking into his mouth to the knuckle with only a vague concern that it might get bitten off if Eskel was suddenly rough. When he withdrew, he smoothed Geralt's saliva down his own cock, allowing it to linger just beyond his lover's reach. Geralt tried to move forward and take it between his lips, but Eskel kept him still. His heart was beating harder, his breaths descending into uneven pants that hitched every time Eskel's cock promised relief, only to continue teasing across his balls and thighs. _Too much_. The first quiet moan broke free from his chest.

"Need to be a bit louder, Geralt." 

"Eskel…" He shimmied his hips imploringly, and the wanton display earned him a minor reprieve. Eskel's head notched inside the tight ring of muscle at his entrance, but barely moved forward. He couldn't shove himself back because Eskel maintained that iron grip on the belt at his wrists, and so he had to endure the torturous rub just inside him. Another quiet moan and he looked longingly at Jaskier's cock as the bard began to lazily stroke up and down its length. Fuck, he _wanted_.

" _Eskel_..."

"What?"

"Fuck me."

"Hmm. Think you need to ask politely. You've been very disrespectful to me…"

Geralt whined as that huge cock continued to tease him, desperately squirming as it slipped out and then stroked over the outside once more. "Eskel, please… _please_ , fuck me."

" _Please_? Address me properly, _Omega_."

It could have gone one or two ways at that point, and Jaskier tilted his head to the side, watching Geralt's eyes closely. To everyone else, they were as indecipherable as Elder Speech, but for Jaskier they were windows into Geralt's mind, heart and soul, even if sometimes he found it difficult to navigate the chaos they displayed. This time he saw only two things: need and excitement. Geralt's supplication came without hesitation.

"Please, fuck me, _Alpha_."

"Good boy." Eskel took him hard and Geralt choked out a moan into Jaskier's calf, gasping again when Eskel withdrew and snapped his hips forward mercilessly.

"Do you want me in your mouth, Geralt?" Jaskier purred and was delighted by the eager nod in response; Eskel allowed enough movement forward for Geralt to take Jaskier's length between his lips. The Witcher sucked and licked greedily and Jaskier stroked his hands through soft, white locks, lifting his hips in a slow, careful roll that juxtaposed the aggressively relentless pace that Eskel set behind him. The pressure built quickly, the hard fuck of Eskel's thick length inside him and the heady taste of Jaskier filling his mouth accentuated by the strain in his shoulders and the bite of the leather into his wrists. When Geralt came, hot and sticky, across the floorboards, Jaskier cooed at him as his mouth fell away in a daze. Unable to curl in on himself to manage the intensity of it, Geralt stuttered and cried out.

Eskel managed to wring one more from him before he met his own end, ensuring that Geralt had enough time to finish Jaskier off first. He yanked Geralt back against him with the belt, his other fingers squeezing the ripe curve of Geralt's ass as he filled him. Instinct momentarily engulfed reason, and he leaned forward to wrap an arm around Geralt's torso and force him up. Eskel's teeth rested on his left shoulder before his senses returned to him, and the Witcher panted heavily to restore his control. Then Geralt whined, "Yes, _please…_ "

Jaskier smiled, leaned back and gave his blessing with a dip of the head. It had been the three of them for four years. It was not 'Jaskier and Geralt, with Eskel'; it was 'Jaskier, Geralt and Eskel'. An important distinction. The bard felt Eskel to be as much his mate as Geralt was; a feeling that had only grown more intense in the last month of living together in domestic bliss. Not that he would have ever tried to deny Geralt his wishes; this was his to give.

Eskel growled as he bit, almost breaking the skin with the ferocity of it. Geralt whimpered as vicious teeth gave way to the warm lap of Eskel's tongue; the Witcher was almost purring in pleasure as he nursed the mark he had inflicted. His knot loosened and he allowed Geralt to flop forward into Jaskier's waiting arms. "Are you alright, my love?" The bard petted Geralt's head.

"Mmm." A blissful grunt, not an unhappy one. The belt around his wrists was removed and left to clatter to the floor. But before he left to get Geralt his breakfast, Eskel insisted on a deep and gentle kiss, wary of the split in Geralt's lip. Those large palms returned to their usual tender nature and stroked over Geralt's jaw and through his hair. He rose and pressed another to Jaskier's mouth in parting, tied the fly of his trousers and disappeared into the kitchen.


	11. Project Vesemir

The spring they spent together after their first winter in Oxenfurt lacked the feverish urgency of all those before, but it was _glorious_. The Witchers fell into a routine of training in the morning, and relaxing in the afternoon; for Geralt, that often meant reading and walking around town, and for Eskel it meant the piano and Jaskier's lute. Intelligent and hardworking, Jaskier had never had such a talented and voracious pupil. As winter drew to a close and spring progressed, Eskel could use both hands on the piano and effortlessly strum his way through several tunes on the lute.

Geralt's heat began slowly, and Jaskier only realised when he found him valiantly trying to resist the soft rug in their bedroom as he pulled his clothes away from his skin; hot, uncomfortable and rough. So the bard had done the noble thing and fucked him senseless on that rug, leaving him breathless and spent. Jaskier then enjoyed the next hour pretending to read while watching Geralt try to discreetly rub himself on it, covering his movements as stretches and adjustments. "Wanton pixie." Murmured into the pages of his novel, but Geralt heard and sent him a scathing glance before flopping onto his back in defeat.

The next two weeks passed in much the same manner, punctuated by short rides through the surrounding countryside to exercise the horses now that the snows had cleared. On more than one occasion, Eskel tackled Geralt from Roach's back and made love to him amongst the fresh grasses and young spring blooms, lavishing him with deep, hungry kisses set to birdsong and leaves rustling in warm breezes. So it was with a heavy heart that Eskel stuffed his belongings into his saddlebags as the season drew on. Jaskier found him clutching some sheet music in the study one evening and smiled gently. "Take it with you. You might find somewhere to practice." Eskel tucked them away with his potions and oils.

They packed their house away for another year and stood at the crossroads outside of the town. Geralt and Jaskier on Roach, and Eskel gazing into the middle distance astride his stallion. "I want to do this every year."

There had been a tense, unhappy silence for the last hour and Geralt looked up suddenly. "Yes… but..." He trailed off. The conflict writ large in every line on his face.

Jaskier felt it too. Of course he wanted his Witchers with him during the winter, but the thought of Vesemir pacing the empty corridors of Kaer Morhen, quietly sick with worry, had occurred to him more than once this year. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps next winter you should go to Kaer Morhen and… explain. Explain what you want." He paused. "He will understand." 

Eskel continued to gaze at the horizon. "Vergen, then. With you too. He needs to see the bond to understand."

Geralt nodded and urged Roach forward. The mare trotted obediently passed the stallion and drew to a stop at its side. Geralt reached up and took the back of Eskel's head with one gloved hand, pulling him over in his saddle for a deep kiss that he hoped would last the year. He didn't even stop to check for an audience. They said nothing as they drew apart, amber eyes drinking in the image of each other, and Eskel rested his forehead to Geralt's for the briefest moment before moving to cup Jaskier's jaw. "Keep him alive for us, bard."

"As always." Jaskier kissed the palm of that leather glove, and then Eskel was riding away at a brisk canter. As the beats of hooves faded into the distance, Jaskier rested a gentle hand at Geralt's waist. "I heard they've been having a bit of a vampire problem down south…"

"We should investigate."

"Sounds good."

***

They left the conversation until the last week of their stay at Kaer Morhen that winter. The three of them ascended the winding staircase to the library where Vesemir was currently sorting through some archives. He didn't look up as the heavy oak doors swung open, muttering quietly to himself as he brushed dust from a particularly ancient volume. 

"Vesemir…" Eskel spoke first, and the old Witcher looked up.

"We have something to discuss with you." Geralt now, who walked further into the room, glancing around at the cracking stone walls and then down a the book in Vesemir's hands. 

"Perhaps you should… sit down?" Jaskier indicated one of the deep, velvet armchairs, cracked with age and faded; much like the old Witcher that looked at it and then lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

“Out with it. I wanted to get this done before sunset.” He placed the volume down on a broad reading desk, his hands planted on either side of it.

Eskel and Geralt looked at each other, and suddenly Jaskier saw two young boys standing before their intimidating father, trying to muster the courage to speak. They had told him of how firm Vesemir had been when they were children; how he had been strict and demanding when they trained, beat them when they misbehaved and taken them through every Trial, but also how he had wiped away their sweat and their vomit with unflinching tenderness, how he had quietly held them as the pain of the mutations abated in their bunks. And even now he tended to their wounds when they limped home, and followed Geralt into the jaws of death whenever he embroiled himself in political intrigue. Vesemir wasn’t just their instructor, their superior or even their mentor. He wasn’t just some old Witcher in a crumbling castle. _He was their father._

It was Geralt who found his voice. “We wish to winter at Oxenfurt from this season on.”

“We will not be returning to Kaer Morhen, unless summoned.” Eskel swallowed, watching Vesemir’s face with thinly veiled trepidation. Jaskier kept his mouth shut and looked at the floor. 

Silence. Vesemir looked from Geralt, to Eskel and then finally to Jaskier. He knew. _Of course he bloody knew._ His eyes lingered on the bard, before they drifted away as he turned his back. “Very well,” his voice was low, but level. “Thank you for telling me. I was concerned last winter when you did not return.” Geralt and Eskel exchanged another glance, and Vesemir huffed irritably. “Go and do something useful. The cellar is basically empty and the snow will soon make the countryside impassable.” The two younger Witchers bowed their heads in acknowledgement. As they headed out, Jaskier remained and waved Geralt away with one extended finger: _one minute._

With the others gone, Jaskier was left alone with Vesemir. The Witcher wasn’t the biggest, or the broadest, but somehow he had always been larger than life in Jaskier’s eyes. Wizened, lethal… but now he looked somehow smaller. Diminished by the mountains of ancient books around him and the news he had just been given. Vesemir spoke, and his voice rang through the cavernous room. “You are still here, Jaskier.”

“Yes, I -,” The bard struggled with his words, and he fiddled with his hands anxiously. “Vesemir, I… never wished to take them away from you. You… you are of course welcome in Oxenfurt, and Lambert too… I...”

A heavy, ragged sigh and Vesemir finally turned back. The weariness, the loss, it was so very obvious in his expression and Jaskier’s heart broke. “I’m afraid it is not that simple,” the Witcher gazed around the room. “I have a responsibility. My brothers, boys I considered sons, friends; they are all buried here. Enshrined in these walls, in the moat and in the countryside surrounding. This is the last memorial to them in existence. There is nothing else, no one else, that remembers their sacrifice. I cannot abandon them to be lost to time.”

“Vesemir, I - I’m so sorry.” Jaskier could feel tears building in his eyes, but angrily suppressed them.

The old Witcher huffed a laugh. “Why?”

“For - for taking Eskel and Geralt, I never -.”

“ _Taking?_ ” Vesemir rubbed a hand over his face. It was a habit, Jaskier realised, that Eskel and Geralt had clearly inherited. “Jaskier, I have never been happier. We are a dying breed. There is no place in this world for us anymore… to see them together, to see how they are with you. If they can salvage something of their lives in Oxenfurt with you and still walk the Path as is required of them, then who am I to deny them that?” And then that old, wizened mug cracked into a small smile. “I am _grateful_ to you.” 

_No. Couldn’t contain it._ Jaskier bounded forward and threw his arms around the Witcher’s shoulders to pull him into a hug. This hadn’t been the intent in staying behind, but _hell_ , it had been a long time coming and brought his score up to four. Unlike Lambert, Vesemir didn’t react with violence, but stood still as the bard squeezed him tightly. Several silent moments passed, before he draped his arms around Jaskier in return and patted his back with fatherly regard. It was as he was pressed close to the old Witcher now that the scent was unmistakable, and Jaskier pulled back abruptly. Hands clasping still on Vesemir’s biceps, he looked inquisitively into those amber eyes. “Vesemir, you’re…”

“In heat, yes, I would appreciate it if that remained between us.” 

Stunned, Jaskier took a step back. “Does Geralt - ? Do any of them - ?”

“No.”

“ _Why?”_ The anger was instantaneous. It overcame the shock like a tidal wave. “Do you know what he did to himself _every spring_?”

“I did.”

“And you did _nothing_ .” Fists clenched. First a hug, and now he was ready to punch Vesemir in his damn face, and then get butchered for it, no doubt. Butchering be damned. “How _could_ you?”

“Not treat him any differently? Allow him his independence? Make sure he doesn’t get eaten, or maimed, or attacked while he fits and writhes in the wilderness?” Vesemir’s voice was completely level, not even a glimmer of anger reflected back at Jaskier. The old Witcher propped himself against the desk and folded his arms. “Choice, Jaskier… _choice_. Geralt had many taken from him. He didn’t get to choose his path in life, nor did he get to choose to be an omega. He deserves the right to choose how he deals with both.” 

The fight faded from Jaskier as quickly as it had risen. He stood in stunned silence. _Schooled_ was the word that Geralt would have used. The bard unclenched his fists and bit his lower lip. “I have… some questions. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

Another pause. “You’re in heat. Why are you not…?”

“Tearing my clothes off and running naked through the snow?”

Jaskier blushed. “Well, yes… I suppose.”

“I’m over four hundred years old. I have control. Geralt’s will get better with time. It becomes far easier once you have been mated.” 

“You’re…?”

Vesemir looked away, his eyes flickering across to the window. “A long time ago.”

“Who?”

“Witcher from the School of Bear. He was murdered during the Purges.” 

_Gods_ was Jaskier going to have any heart left after this? Another stab went through his chest and he pinned his arms to his sides to stem the second hug. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We were together for two hundred glorious years. He died valiantly defending his home, and I buried him there with honour when I found out what had happened.”

“And you haven’t found anyone else since?”

“No. The bond is forever, Jaskier. You know that.” 

“Hmm,” Jaskier nodded. “And… how can the others not… you know, _smell_ you? Eskel says that Geralt’s scent is beautiful. He calls it…”

“Petrichor,” Vesemir finished for him. “I have decoctions that obscure it, only obvious when someone gets very close. It’s a recipe I made myself when I was Geralt’s age. Got sick and tired of the looks and the offers.” Jaskier opened his mouth for another angry comment but stilled himself when Vesemir raised a hand. “Remember, choice. If he asks for help, then I will gladly give it, but somehow I don’t think he finds it an issue anymore.”

“No… he - he really enjoys the spring now,” Jaskier rubbed the back of his head. “And yours falls in the winter?”

“It’s to do with your birthday. Geralt was born in the spring.” 

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my… the spring is his _birthday,_ well, birth-season - I -.”

“Yes. Eskel was born in the autumn, and Lambert in the summer… I think that’s where he gets his fire from. Absorbed the heat of the sun when he…” A flutter of the hands outwards for euphemism, and Vesemir lifted from his perch against the desk. “Now, if you don’t mind… I have work to do.”

“Of course.” Jaskier turned to leave. “And Vesemir…”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you… for letting me love them.”

The old Witcher barked a laugh. “Jaskier, you can’t argue with destiny. She’ll fuck you over quicker than a Novigrad tradesman.”


	12. Traveller's Eyes

The next few years were as near to a kind of bliss that a Witcher could get. Every winter they met at Oxenfurt, and slowly the house began to fill with the personality of its occupants. Eskel adopted the study and brought with him trinkets, maps and books from all over the Continent; the room overflowed with evidence of his adventures and Jaskier loved nothing more than to sit in the middle and gaze around it, allowing his mind to travel to those far off places at Eskel's side.

Geralt became alarmingly house proud. A day didn't pass without some small project; he enjoyed cleaning, fixing and maintaining whenever the opportunity arose. In the evenings, he insisted on cooking and chased Jaskier out of the kitchen more than once when he tried to 'help' - “Jaskier, _put that d--_ … no, that’s too much salt… out, get out now.” Geralt thrived most when he could care for something and someone, a realisation that Jaskier watched him accept slowly as the years had crept by. Perhaps it was a quirk of his biology, or just a Geralt-ism, either way the house and his two mates provided him every opportunity to do just that, and so his heart was content.

They celebrated Jaskier's fiftieth birthday with a rather full and raucous party at the university, and then retired to bed to drink a bottle of vodka and make him feel twenty-six again. Geralt ran his fingers through brunette hair peppered with grey during a quiet moment as they lay curled up under the blankets, and Jaskier batted at him. "Stop eyeballing the old bits. I'll look like you in a few years at this rate."

"Mm. I like it. You're aging like a fine wine." Geralt licked across the arch of his ear, and Eskel grunted in agreement, rolled over and disappeared beneath the cover. Moments later, Jaskier had forgotten about the grey hairs and thanked his lucky stars for the existence of Eskel's mouth. 

***

The following year, Geralt and Jaskier arrived first as usual and woke the house from its annual slumber. Days passed. Then a week. On the eighth evening, with a storm raging outside, Geralt paced the living room. "He should be here by now."

"He may be delayed, Geralt. Perhaps he went further south than usual…"

"No. Something's wrong. He's never this late. _Never._ I need to find him."

" _Find him?_ How? How are you going to scour hundreds of miles of countryside? It would be worse than looking for a needle in a haystack, and meanwhile, he'll turn up here and have to wait in the warm for _you._ "

"I can't explain it, Jaskier. I can _feel_ it. I need to go." Geralt snatched his swords from where they had been propped, ready, and strapped them to his back. "If I don't find him in three days, I'll be back." 

It went unsaid, but Geralt and Jaskier stared at each other as they both thought it anyway. If Eskel wasn't here, and Geralt couldn't find him, then he was dead. Only the finality of death would keep Eskel from Geralt and Jaskier; he had once expressed as such. His loyalty was unwavering. Neither wanted to acknowledge it with words; saying it out loud would make it true. Geralt pressed a brief kiss to Jaskier's lips and headed into the storm with Roach.

***

Jaskier startled awake. The fire had dulled in the grate and he had fallen asleep on the couch. The storm still raged outside, but it had only been hours since Geralt had left. The fervent hammering on the door had woken him, and he stumbled towards it still dazed with sleep.

The man that barged through it was bigger than the tallest of the Blue Mountains, and Jaskier recognised him instantly. "Move, bard." Letho, Witcher from the now defunct School of Viper, snarled at him as he hauled a limp form through the door. Jaskier's heart leapt into his throat. _Eskel._ One limp arm draped over Letho's shoulders and one of his Letho's own gripped around Eskel's waist; he wasn't supporting any of his own weight. As Letho hauled him across the living room and tipped him onto the couch, Geralt burst in.

"What… what happened?" Jaskier stood out of the way, knowing better than to get in Geralt's way as he tore Eskel's armour, cloak and clothes away. 

Letho stood back, breathing in short, sharp huffs. "Found him having the shit kicked out of him by some bandit scumbags…"

" _Humans_ ? Humans did this to a _Witcher_?"

Letho scoffed. "No, graveir bite did most of the work for them. All I know is he waded into their robbing of a merchant while still healing from the worst of the cadaverine in the wound, must have been a few hours later they ambushed him, took out his horse and shot a few arrows in the right places…" The Viper unbuckled the two swords from his back and dumped them on the desk by the window - Eskel's. "Lucky I came across him when I did. They were just about to finish the job."

Geralt was tending to each of the wounds in turn. There were three holes in his torso, and from one Geralt dug a smooth arrowhead; it clattered to the floor when he discarded it and left a trail of claret in its wake. The rich tapestry of bruising across his ribs evidenced the damage underneath, and his left shoulder was swollen, but it was the infected bite in his thigh that would prove lethal if left untreated. "Jaskier, get my alchemy supplies." 

The bard ran upstairs and grabbed the required bag, and then watched with bated breath as Geralt ground herbs and mixed oils. Jaskier only looked at the wall when the Witcher used a switchblade to cut away some necrotised flesh from Eskel's leg, before sewing the wound shut and covering it with salve and bandages. The holes caused by the arrows were easy enough to seal; no vital organs had been hit, by some miracle. Cool fingers probed around Eskel's shoulder, the other hand manipulating his arm to test the joint. "Letho. Here."

The huge Witcher left his post by the window and assisted in propping Eskel up temporarily as Geralt gripped his bicep and elbow. With a crack that turned Jaskier’s stomach, Geralt relocated Eskel's shoulder into its socket. The lack of response from the patient was disturbing, and Eskel hung like a rag doll in Letho's grip. Geralt helped lower his mate back to the couch, and then he sat there, still dripping rainwater with his swords on his back, his palm pressed over Eskel's heart. 

Letho sniffed and looked at Jaskier. "Beer?"

"In the, ummm.. in the kitchen. Help yourself." The bard left Letho to it and drifted over to his Witchers. He crouched down by Eskel’s head and buried his fingers in his damp hair. "My love… what happened to you?" Jaskier leaned over to rest his lips against Eskel’s forehead and breathe in his scent; it was tarnished by blood and sweat, and he could feel his chest tighten with anxiety. The heat was returning to Eskel’s skin as he dried, and Jaskier could hear the soft flutter of his shallow breathing. _Still here. Still alive._

“Geralt, how close was that?” His voice sounded small even to him. This had to happen at some point, Jaskier had pulled arrows, teeth and claws out of Geralt many times in their years together. Sewed him up, changed bandages and nursed him through a fever or two caused by a wound or toxin that would have killed a normal man outright, but to see Eskel limp and broken was more difficult than he could have ever imagined.

Geralt said nothing. The fire crackled and the minutes passed. His eyes were closed and he was listening intently. Reassuring himself that the slow, steady thrum of the heart under his hand was not his own reflected back at him, and the rise and fall of Eskel’s chest was not an illusion conjured by hope. When he spoke, his voice rasped. “Too close. He wasn’t breathing when I arrived.” 

Jaskier flinched and pressed a kiss to Eskel’s parted lips, he paused with his hands still buried in that scruffy mop of black hair. _Too close_. If he had kept Geralt here as he had intended, then they might have been standing over a corpse right now. The silence dragged on, Jaskier searching Eskel’s face and stroking small circles on his scalp. He only shifted when a puddle of rainwater began to soak through the knee of his breeches, and when he looked down at the floor, he realised it was coming from Geralt. 

“Come on, get those clothes off. You’re dripping all over the rug.” He smiled gently and helped Geralt with his sword belts and cloak, the former he placed with Eskel’s and the latter he draped over a dining chair near the fire to dry. As Geralt was pulling his shirt over his head, Letho swaggered back in with a hand in his jerkin.

“I almost forgot,” he placed his bottle of beer down on the same writing desk as Eskel’s swords. “The stupid bastard went back to his horse for something. Got shot twice more because of it, must’ve been important, so I grabbed it.” He pulled out a battered leather portfolio from where it had been tucked against his chest. Jaskier took it from him and laid it reverently on the desk next to his swords. The leather was saturated with rainwater and the strips that bound it together fell away easily when tugged. Jaskier recognised its contents instantly: sheet music. The ink had smeared in the wet, but some of the notes and the words scribbled underneath were still salvageable. Half an hour by the fire would dry it out sufficiently for Jaskier to read it.

As he picked up the last of the pages something metal tinkled across the wooden surface of the desk, tugged free from the leather bindings by the shifting papers. Jaskier set the music aside and curled his fingers through the small chain binding three silver rings together. For the second time this evening, he could feel his heart rise towards his mouth. “Geralt…”

The Witcher appeared at his shoulder and gazed down into Jaskier’s open palm. There was an identical inscription written on the inside of each; he picked one up carefully and turned it over in his fingers. “It’s Elder Speech… Cáerme.”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed. “What does it mean?”

“It means destiny.” Geralt murmured, carefully opening the chain and slipping the three rings into his palm. He studied them with an indecipherable expression as they glinted in the firelight, and then slipped them into his pocket. Geralt said nothing more that night and returned to sit on the floor at Eskel’s side, his knees tucked up towards his chest and his forearms draped across them. 

Letho snored.

***

The following morning Letho and Geralt moved Eskel upstairs to a bed, and Jaskier did his best to clean the blood from the couch and the rug. It was a lost cause. He should have factored in blood stains when preparing a nest for Witchers and cursed himself for the oversight. 

Two days passed and Eskel slept the whole time. The colour returned to his face and his breathing evened out, but there was no other evidence of consciousness; Geralt and Jaskier took it in turns to sit at his bedside and keep a watchful eye. But even when he wasn’t in the room, Jaskier could hear Geralt pace up and down in the hallway outside, unable to sleep or occupy himself with anything other than the Witcher lying prone in their bed.

While it was his turn in the armchair, Jaskier poured over the sheet music Eskel had risked his life to salvage. He carefully annotated it with question marks and repaired the phrases as best he could. By the end of the third day, he was strumming small sections on his lute. 

“Does that sound right to you?” He asked the unconscious Witcher, and peered closely at his notes. “This bit… _surrendering to a love that’s pure_ ? That’s very romantic, Eskel. I didn’t know you had it in you. _Let the breath of spring warm your thoughts_ … well, I know what _that’s_ about. Saucy devil, you… hmm.” The thought of Eskel humming and singing to himself about love and spring in the wilderness, surrounded by monsters and darkness, made Jaskier’s heart _ache_. 

It was during one of these gentle strumming sessions that the Witcher began to stir. It was an awkward, pained twitch as all his senses returned to him at once, alerting him to his various injury sites. “You’re an octave too high…” Eskel rasped, one eye cracked open to study the bard closely.

Jaskier let out a breath as he looked up, relief flooding his chest and making him light-headed, and then he pursed his lips at the insinuation. “Eskel, I am _never_ an octave too high. Everyone else is just an octave _too low_.” 

“Mmm.” The Witcher sat up slowly; Jaskier shifted some pillows behind his back to help, and watched as he began to inspect his injuries. Eskel rolled his shoulder and winced at the stiffness that still seized in the joint, and prodded at the scabbed holes in his torso to test stitches. His quiet investigation was disturbed by a familiar gait drumming its way up the stairs, and Geralt stepped across the threshold.

“You stupid _fuck._ ” Fists and teeth clenched.

Eskel blinked and managed a sly grin. “Good evening…”

“Travelling after a graveir bite? Picking fights with bandits? Going back for-- what were you thinking?” 

“Hmm. Almost like I’ve taken a leaf out of your book, isn’t it?”

The bard rose to his feet and placed his lute to the side, lifting his hands to try and stay Geralt’s anger. “He’s… it’s fine, he’s fine… calm down.” 

When Geralt surged forward and took Eskel by the throat, Jaskier yelped and scrambled around the edge of the bed to try and intervene. He needn’t have worried. Geralt dropped to press his mouth to Eskel’s in a desperate kiss, and Eskel carefully removed the hand from his neck, lacing his fingers through it instead. He encouraged Geralt down next to him with light, insistent tugs to his hand and hips. 

When he settled on his back, Eskel ran a hand beneath his shirt just for the feel of his skin under his palm as they kissed; Geralt was warm and bath soft, and Eskel felt immediately at peace. The impact of the boots burying themselves in his sides as the arrow shafts snapped off from his chest; the deep, consuming ache of the toxin from the graveir and the bitter cold of the winter storm saturating his armour and clothes faded into obscurity, replaced instead with Geralt’s scent, lips and body.

He drew away, his brow creased in concern as his memory was beginning to piece back together. “I had a dream that Letho saved my life. Please tell me it’s not true.”

“It’s true. Apparently despite your own best efforts.” Geralt was pawing over the scabbed wounds on Eskel’s chest as he spoke, and then shifted the blankets aside to inspect the bandages over the bite. _Still clean._

Eskel groaned and leaned back into the pillows. “You should have let me die. My suffering will be eternal.” 

“Only for the next hundred years, Eskel!” Letho’s voice boomed up from the living room where he had returned from his outing to drink them dry of all alcoholic beverages, his keen hearing able to pick up the conversation even over the din from the street. Eskel grimaced.

Jaskier laughed and headed downstairs to retrieve their patient some food. When the bard returned however, it was to find both Witchers curled around each other and dozing peacefully. He left the bread and meat covered at Eskel’s bedside, and closed the door quietly behind him. 

***

Fed and rested, with Geralt’s ready attention, Eskel recovered quickly. Three days later he was walking around the house and itching to get outside to stretch his legs, but Geralt insisted he needed more time, grabbing a handful of that graveir bite and reducing Eskel to pained growls to prove his point. And so, confined to quarters, Eskel grabbed Jaskier’s lute one afternoon when he believed the house to be empty and tweaked at the tuning pegs.

It took him a while to remember the strumming pattern, and several times the instrument twanged in protest as his fingers tripped over the strings. He found the rhythm on his fifth or sixth attempt and strummed through several rounds from memory. It had been difficult to write something with no instrument to practice on consistently, and even the few taverns he had found with any kind of musical capacity were loathe to loan a Witcher anything without a handsome fee. Eskel had played his song only a handful of times. He cleared his throat on his third full round, and added in his lyrics.

> _“Let the breath of spring warm your thoughts,  
>  With you and me and forget-me-nots.  
>  There’s a photograph* of you inside,  
>  That could never leave this traveller’s eyes._
> 
> _There will be a time for grace,  
>  When the spoils are lost without a trace.  
>  Surrendering to a love that’s pure,  
>  Will save the soul of a man, I’m sure._
> 
> _Let the whisper of winter plead for change,  
>  As you recall the poet’s shame,  
>  We learn to love by slowing down,  
>  We give our hearts as we allow._
> 
> _We will fall but we will rise,  
>  We will fall but we will rise.”_

Unbeknownst to the fledgling musician, he had an audience by the very beginning of his chorus. Jaskier had returned from the market, leaving Geralt to source Roach some hay and oats from the local stables. Groceries left in the kitchen, he followed the sound of music up the stairs to the bedroom and stood outside the door to listen. 

Eskel’s voice was good, untrained and occasionally off pitch, but a solid, warm baritone that, with a little instruction, would melt the hearts of any audience. The lute pranged and Jaskier flinched, “ _Fuck…”_ Eskel swore and picked quickly through a scale, almost in apology to the instrument itself… and then he froze. “Jaskier, how long have you been standing there?”

 _Rumbled._ “Mmm, if I said I had just appeared, would you believe me?” He edged through the door and cast Eskel a lopsided grin. “You wrote that yourself?”

Eskel cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t realise you were back…”

“Are you embarrassed?” Jaskier asked, incredulous. 

“I feel like a child playing with a wooden sword in front of a knight,” he set the lute carefully aside. “I had hoped you would sing it instead, I was… just seeing what it sounded like.” 

Jaskier preened at the compliment - ' _fillingless pie' still hurt all these years later_ \- but picked up the lute and pushed it back towards Eskel. "But _you_ wrote it. The warmth, the love you put into it, all replaced by something artificial when it's sung by someone else." 

"What do you think? Be honest."

Jaskier perched in an armchair, and folded his hands in his lap. "It suits you… it's sweet, tender, and full of hope. Energetic with the instrumental. I love it." 

Eskel's mouth opened and closed, not quite sure how to respond to such a list of unlikely adjectives, even after knowing Jaskier for all these years.

The bard tapped his chin. "Music tends to sound better with all your heart and soul fully invested. It’s as if it can sense when you are uncertain. A bit like combat, if you're too tentative, you're going to get your ass kicked. Here… play again, but this time, I want you to match my pitch and volume. Pass me the music."

Geralt could hear them from the street through the open window when he returned. He left Roach to her oats and leaned against the wall of the house with his eyes closed to listen. He had never heard Eskel sing before. Before Jaskier, there was no space in a Witcher's life for music, but the bard had barrelled his way into their bleak world and splashed it with colour and sound. His melodious voice flowed around Eskel's like a tender caress; as much a duet as Jaskier's ode to Eskel and his beautifully innocent song. Occasionally, they broke out of tune and Jaskier crooned operatically, eliciting laughs from Eskel that were as pure and gentle as his lyrics. "I can't go that high..."

"It's called falsetto, darling. I'm pretty sure I could find a way to make you hit those notes."

"You are absolute filth."

“Yes. So, going to take me up on the offer?”

***

“Where are they, Letho?” Eskel shoved the huge Witcher against the wall of the living room with enough force to make the paintings rattle, his forearm braced across his chest.

The Viper blinked, unthreatened. Eskel was still limping. A well-aimed kick would bring him to his knees, so Letho cocked his head to the side, serpentine eyes closing slowly as he considered the fury in Eskel’s eyes with interest. His tone remained its usual slow, measured drool and that just infuriated Eskel more. “Where are what?”

“If you've pawned them, I'll gut you.”

“Still have no idea what you’re talking about…” He had every idea. The rings that had fallen out of that portfolio had intrigued him greatly and, while he knew they were safely in Geralt’s custody, he wanted to see just how deep this ran. “But if you want to go toe-to-toe, little Wolf, I suggest we head outside. Your den won’t survive me.” He grinned, all teeth.

“ _Eskel_ …” Geralt stepped through the front door, shaking snow from his shoulders and hair. As the sun had set, the sky had fallen with it and several feet of snow now blanketed Oxenfurt in muted white. Jaskier was attending a dinner with some of his former university colleagues and had allowed the Witchers to stay home, with the promise that they would keep the bed warm for when he returned. “What are you doing?”

“He thinks I pawned his jewelry.” Letho’s tone was matter-of-fact, and he relished the accusatory look he received from Eskel in response. “What? I wanted to see whether you _would_ gut me. You’re so mild-mannered compared to the rest of your pack.” Eskel let him go with a disgusted huff, his fists unfurling and clenching as he looked everywhere but at Geralt.

“Letho…” Geralt looked at the Viper intently. “Go for a walk.” Letho held his hands up and ducked out into the snow in search of better entertainment without further comment. “Eskel, sit.” He indicated the couch and began shedding the layers he had piled on to ward off the bite of the cold. The other drifted over to the indicated seat and lowered himself slowly, his breath catching when Geralt produced three silver rings from his pocket, and passed them over. “You were looking for these.”

Eskel closed his fingers over them and rested the fist in his lap. “You probably think I’m going soft.”

“I _know_ you’re going soft,” Geralt murmured. “The Eskel I trained with would not have thrown himself in front of two archers for some rings and a ballad.”

“They’re not just…” He trailed off and shifted awkwardly in his seat.

“Talk to me, Eskel. I nearly lost you two weeks ago and I still can’t understand why.”

“I bought them that first winter we stayed here, while we were walking through the market. Before we had even reached the house. I don’t know… I got it into my head that, if we were going to do _this_ , then I should… it should have some kind of...” _The small package in brown paper and twine._

“Then why have you kept them for so long?”

“I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin it?”

“I can’t exactly get down on one knee and ask you both to marry me, can I? It’s just… it’s just stupid. So, I kept them, then I had that fucking engraving done and realised I could _never_ hand them over.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt rubbed his chin and leaned back in his seat. “Why not?”

Eskel stared at him. “Why not what?”

“Why can’t you ask us?”

“Because we’re…” The word _Witchers_ just died on his tongue. He looked around at their living room, in their house that they had spent the last few winters together, and then back at Geralt as the epiphany suddenly dawned. His mate sat there quietly, with his inquisitive golden eyes and head tilted to the side, and Eskel realised that he had misplaced the absurdity. The absurdity was that he still clung to the idea that he couldn’t have something because he was a Witcher. Jaskier, Geralt, their home; concrete proof that he could have what he wanted, and the world would not suddenly implode in retribution or outrage. It was a realisation that Geralt had clearly already dealt with himself, because he waited patiently as it trickled through Eskel’s mind and said nothing to interrupt the silence.

So, obviously, Eskel fell back to the practicalities to manage the flood of different emotions that threatened even the sanctity of his mutations. “Who would consecrate it?”

Geralt shrugged. “I know my fair share of pagan priestesses and druids that wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course you do…” Eskel pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed the tops of his knees and looked at Geralt again, apprehensive. “So - ?”

“You haven’t actually asked anything.” Geralt lifted a foot from the floor and draped his calf across his knee.

“You’re going to make me - ?”

“Yes. I had to resuscitate you covered in mud and human entrails, and for the entire ride back I was pretty certain you were already dead. On top of that, I now have Letho of Gulet staying in my house, drinking my wine and eating all of my food. Make it good, Eskel.” 

“If you say no now, I’m going to beat you to within an inch of your life.”

“I believe that’s called a forced marriage,” Geralt’s brows raised, but he fell silent.

Eskel pocketed two of the rings and held the third in the flat of his palm. His throat and mouth felt suddenly dry, and he stood only briefly before sinking slowly to one knee. How many times had he thought about this privately? How many times had he imagined where it would happen? What would he do? What would the answer be? Sprawled out on his bedroll, looking at the stars and just _dreaming_ about it, grateful that he didn’t have wily sorceresses dogging his steps that could peek into his mind whenever they fancied. He had written verses and verses in those silent, night-time hours, full of flowery language that would have made Jaskier gush with pride. 

And yet now, the words stuck in his throat, trapped there by the warmth of Geralt’s scent and the intensity of his gaze. So, he kept it simple. Geralt _liked_ simple. He hated _pageantry._ He despised it when those that thought they were _better_ than him tried to obscure their meaning behind subtext and euphemism in hopes of confusing him into obedience, or agreement. It didn’t work, and it just pissed him off. Simple was best.

Eskel cleared his throat. “Geralt of Rivia. I love you. Will you marry me?” 

Geralt dropped his foot back to the floor and leaned forward with a quiet sigh, his elbows on his knees and his face inches apart from Eskel’s. He studied the other Witcher, his head still slightly tilted to the side in a way that Jaskier always said reminded him of his namesake; a white wolf, curious and attentive. His expression was passive, but his eyes were alight with his answer before he even said it. Blunt, but soft. “Yes.”

Eskel grinned and lifted his hands to the back of Geralt’s neck. He undid the fastening of his medallion’s chain and slid it through the ring. Wearing jewelry on their hands wasn’t really an option; degloving was a real and gruesome possibility in their line of work. Besides, in Eskel’s mind, it would be closer to Geralt’s heart this way. Geralt leaned back and gazed down at his own chest, considering his latest addition thoughtfully. “Jaskier is going to lose his mind…”

Jaskier did, in fact, lose his mind. 

The bard appeared in a flurry of exasperated words an hour or so later, belly full of food and drink and mind full of gossip. He shed his cloak in favour of huddling near the fire with a blanket around his shoulders, and beckoned his private Witcher-furnaces close to share their warmth. When Eskel shifted from his seat back onto his knee for the second time, Jaskier burst from his soft cocoon and tackled him to the floor. Unable to maintain his balance due to the still healing wound, Eskel buckled with a surprised grunt and was rendered breathless by the kiss that Jaskier lavished on his mouth. He allowed himself to be pinned to the rug and hugged as the bard trilled and hummed in delight. “I, umm… is that a yes?” 

“Oh, my love. A thousand times yes! Not even a gift from Melitele herself could change my mind. Oh, how beautiful, how pure. Oh, oh, I thought you would never ask. I saw them, and I knew… but I wasn’t _sure._ And then you didn’t say anything, and then... Geralt, _Geralt!_ Get down here.” 

Geralt did as he was told and they settled on the rug for the evening, with Jaskier sprawled on Eskel’s chest. The bard eventually talked himself to sleep; Eskel carefully tested the ring on his left hand to make sure it fit, and was privately smug when it caught only briefly across Jaskier’s knuckle. _Almost perfect._

“Come on, if he sleeps like this, he won’t be able to move in the morning.” Geralt uncurled and stooped to scoop their bard into his arms. Other than a soft snore, there was no response as the Witchers carried him upstairs and tucked him beneath the blankets. They lay in the dark, the outside muted by heavy snowfall.

“Why Elder Speech, Eskel?”

“Hmm?”

“Cáerme…”

Eskel smiled in the darkness. “Because our bond transcends time, Geralt. What is more eternal than Elder Speech?”

“Hmm,” Geralt closed his eyes and tilted his face into Jaskier’s hair, muttering softly. “ _Dearme, me Minne_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photograph * - the Witcher contains an anachronistic bunch of technology, for example, the origins of 'vodka' has been set in the nineteenth century (although some sources suggest monks in the 15th century were brewing it, but eh), and Witchers from the School of Crane even supposedly used firearms. So, I figured something similar to a 'photograph' could probably exist, right?
> 
> The song is 'Traveller's Eyes' by Ramin Karimloo - it's beautiful, give it a listen.
> 
> "Dearme, me Minne" (Elder Speech) translates to "Good night, my Love".
> 
> Having a rough time, so I went absolutely ham with the softness in this story. Sorry (not really)!


	13. Project Letho (E)

Jaskier once thought that no man could possibly eat more than Geralt. He had been so very wrong. Letho, thankfully, continued to bring back meat and other things from his excursions beyond Oxenfurt, and spent most of the day out of the house. In the evenings, he sat and drank, staring pensively into the fire and occasionally pacing like a caged animal. Where domesticity suited Geralt and Eskel during the winter months, Letho clearly struggled with the confinement.

One morning, Jaskier found him standing out in the courtyard, sharpening one of his many, many knives with a whetstone. This particular Witcher was elusive during the hunting season, and Jaskier had only ever seen him a handful of times in the winter months, but if there was any Witcher that needed a hug, then it was Letho. His entire School had been destroyed by the Nilfgaardian Usurper, and then further betrayed when the remaining members struck a deal with the current regime. By Geralt’s estimate, Letho was probably one of two Vipers left. 

_That didn’t make him any less intimidating though._

He was easily twice the size of Geralt; his arms were thicker than Jaskier’s waist and his huge hands made the shortswords in his arsenal look no bigger than hunting knives. Letho lacked the handsome, angular features of his Wolf School brethren; the shaven dome of his head and grizzled face and neck made him seem more alien than Jaskier’s current collection of Witchers. Letho looked up suddenly. “What do you want, bard?”

 _Must have been thinking too loudly_. “Good question, ummm,” he clasped his hands together in front of him. “Just wanted to see how you were holding up. You seem quite… unsettled in the evenings.”

The sing of the whetstone over steel stopped abruptly, and Letho turned to face Jaskier. When he started moving forwards, the bard backtracked so quickly he almost slipped in the ice and snow. His back hit the outside wall of the house and he swallowed audibly. Letho was mere inches away from his face, and when he spoke, Jaskier could feel his breath. “I am not one of your lost puppies, bard. You don’t need to simper and fawn over me.”

Jaskier’s heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest. “I didn’t mean to cause offence, I… I’m grateful for… that you saved Eskel’s life.”

“I owed Geralt. In any other circumstance, I would have let Eskel’s stupidity kill him.” As he said it, Letho was searching Jaskier’s expression for a reaction, and was gratified when he saw the flare of outrage and distaste.

“But, he’s a Witcher, you’re meant to defend each--.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s a solo sport. No room for team players in the Witcher brotherhood. In fact, if he had died, it would have been one less competitor. Oh well, there’s always next time.”

“You _insufferable_ \--.” Jaskier moved forward despite himself, and before he knew it there was a knife at his throat. One of the two crossed over at Letho’s front withdrawn in a mere flick of his wrist. Vipers fought with twin blades, just like a snake struck with two fangs. The bard tilted his head back as the edge of that blade brushed across his jugular, but he kept his eyes on those serpentine yellow ones, defiant. Letho’s eyebrow quirked, impressed… but he didn’t get a chance to say anymore.

“Letho. If that knife draws a single drop of blood, I will kill you.” Geralt growled from the edge of the courtyard, and the Viper sheathed the blade with a whisper of metal and leather.

“Just teasing, Geralt. I’d never murder a man in his own home.”

"On his own ship, on the other hand.”

Letho waved the comment away, dismissive. “Ancient history.”

"You've been itching for a fight for days. Locals not entertaining enough?"

Letho grunted. "Scholars and poets, about as entertaining as lichen," he glanced at Jaskier. "No offence." _He definitely wanted Jaskier to take offence._

"Fine. Come on." Geralt shrugged his cloak off and withdrew the steel blade from his back. "A bit of exercise might help you cool off."

There was that grin again. More a baring of teeth than a smile. "Pretty sure you've gone as soft as Eskel has, White Wolf. Doubt I'll break a sweat."

"Hmm," Geralt beckoned with two fingers. Letho didn't need inviting twice. He moved impossibly fast, his size clearly not a hindrance to grace. Twin shortswords, torn from the sheaths on his back, met Geralt's single steel one with a grating shriek. Letho struck with the speed and ferocity of his namesake and Geralt exercised the limits of his speed and agility in avoiding him. He took a slice across the face and Jaskier flinched, barely able to draw himself back as Geralt parried the following attack and knocked the blade from his hand. With one proverbial fang removed, Letho was forced onto his backfoot, and then his backside when Geralt kicked him in the chest. The Viper snarled and his hand flew into a rapid sign. Jaskier's heart stopped - _Igni_.

The flames streamed from Letho like the breath of a dragon, and Geralt had enough time to dip and twist to the side with his arm over his head before he was engulfed. Jaskier screamed his name, propelled himself from the wall and sprinted towards the inferno and Letho's eyes widened. " _Axii_ \- stop!'

Jaskier stopped suddenly, rooted to the spot, his face slack. But he was fighting. Letho could feel him thrashing and screaming inside his head like a banshee, and ever so slowly one foot shuffled forward. "Huh," the Viper rose to his feet and moved towards the bard, head cocked to the side. "You really, really love him, don't you? You would run through fire, and tear your mind asunder to get to him. How… _interesting_."

The flames dissipated, and steam rose from Geralt's body where his Quen shield hadn't quite absorbed all the heat. He threw his sword to the floor and patted himself down to check for scorch marks. "You are a fucking _assho_ \--." He looked up to Jaskier then. His bard was quivering on the spot, fighting the Witcher sign that kept him frozen in place and thus protected from the flames of igni. Those cornflower blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, until one finally escaped and slipped down his cheek. 

_Geralt saw red._

His hand wrapped about Letho's throat before his brain had a chance to coordinate; he lifted the giant Witcher from the floor, and slammed him down onto his back with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, and Letho coughed in shock. Geralt snatched one of the Viper's own knives from the holsters on his jerkin, and pressed it hard enough under his chin to begin drawing blood. "Our long history, and the fact that you saved Eskel, are the only reasons I haven't driven this through your skull. But if I ever see you again, Letho of Gulet, you are a dead man."

Jaskier staggered when Axii's hold faded, and he blinked as Geralt stood up and allowed the other Witcher to climb to his feet. The White Wolf shoved the hilt of the knife against Letho's chest, and the Viper silently took it back and returned it to its sheathe. He left the courtyard without a word as Geralt took Jaskier in his arms. The two headed inside, but only the bard saw the conflicted look that Letho cast over his shoulder before vanishing into the town.

***

"He did _what_? Debt or no, I'm going to skin him, give me my swords, Geralt. _Geralt, give them to me_." Eskel staggered to his feet and limped two paces towards his mate with his hand out, and when all he received was a raised eyebrow, he huffed in irritation and dropped back into his chair.

"He's long gone. Letho is many things, but stupid is not one of them." Geralt placed Eskel's swords back on the dressing table when he was certain the other had abandoned his intentions. His gaze then turned to Jaskier.

Their bard had insisted on being in the bedroom. He sat in front of the fireplace on Geralt's favourite rug, his knees to his chest and arms wrapped about them. He hadn't said a word since the courtyard, only stared vacantly into the flames. Geralt sat down slowly behind him, wrapping his legs and arms around the slighter frame and pulling him close. "Jaskier…"

"Is it like that for everyone?" He sounded fragile; his throat crackled and he pulled one of Geralt's hands to his chest.

"Like what?"

"It felt like I was suffocating, and covered in ice. I've never felt so… helpless. Not ever. Not even all the times we've been captured, or chased… I…"

Eskel moved stiffly from his seat and joined them on the floor, he took Jaskier's chin gently and tilted it up. "Axii is unique to every Witcher. I think it depends on their character, their training..." The Witcher growled. "He shouldn't have done it. It's a… violation."

"What does it feel like when you do it?"

The Witchers exchanged a look. Geralt spoke softly, "Well, when Eskel does it, it's like stepping into a warm bath. Or sinking into a soft bed. You don't mind doing what he says, because you feel at peace."

"And you?"

"Like you want to get down on your knees and serve him for an eternity, and you're going to love every moment of it." Eskel smirked, and Geralt cast him an irritable look. 

Jaskier smiled. "How do you know?"

"Who else would we have practiced on?" Geralt shrugged.

"I thought Witchers were immune to magic…"

"Mmm. It was more complicated than that when we were training."

"Alright, well… Eskel, do it."

"What?" Eskel gaped and drew his hands back.

"I already want to be on my knees in front of Geralt, and… a warm bath for my mind sounds heavenly right now."

"Jaskier, I'm not sure… it's not…"

"Eskel, I _trust_ you. Please. I need… I need the feeling out of my head."

The Witcher shifted uneasily, but he knew that look in Jaskier's eye. The glint of determination that glued him to Geralt's side, and made him persevere through every bad show and heckle. Jaskier got what he wanted. Every time. "Alright," Eskel shuffled and lifted his left hand, pausing only briefly to look at Geralt for a bit of reassurance. " _Axii_." 

Geralt felt Jaskier relax in his arms almost immediately; he let out a long breath, as if he had been holding it since the courtyard, and gazed at Eskel with vacant adoration. Eskel leaned forward and brushed his fingers across Jaskier's cheek, careful with the delicate and beautiful mind in the palm of his hand. He weighed it for a moment, listening to the echoes of his thoughts reflect back into his own head and frowned. "Go to sleep, Jaskier. Dream of the coast." The bard closed his eyes with a blissful smile and flopped against Geralt's chest. 

"What did you find?"

"I'm no Yennefer, Geralt," Eskel murmured. "But I think he's worried about Letho."

" _Oh for fu-_ -, of course he is." Geralt grumbled and rose to his feet, lifting his bard up with him.

"You know what he's like," Eskel stretched out on the rug, flexing his wounded leg with a light grimace. "A collector of broken things."

"Mm." Geralt tucked Jaskier under the blankets, and stroked a hand over his silver-peppered hair. 

"Geralt, come here. I want to be on my knees in front of you."

"I didn't cast Axii…" The Witcher sauntered on over with that outrageously arrogant swagger and Eskel snagged him by the belt buckle to haul him the last few inches. 

"You never needed to all those years ago either." Eskel undid the ties of Geralt's trousers and slid a hand inside to gently ease his cock free. When he leaned up to draw his tongue across tender flesh, still supple for now, he allowed his eyes to flicker up to meet the amber eyes that gazed down at him, inquisitive. 

Geralt's hand ran through the ruffled black hair in front of him. "Mind control turns you on?"

"Mm. No. It always leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and I can't think of a better replacement…" Eskel rested his hands lightly on the back of Geralt's knees and tended to his cock only with his mouth; he lapped and kissed with languorous abandon, and it didn't take long for Geralt's body to respond with interest. Eskel lavished indulgent kisses down the hardened shaft all the way to his groin, and nuzzled into the soft curls at the base. "Mmm. You always smell and taste so good." He traced his tongue down the thick vein at the centre, and then around the engorged head that hovered at his lips. A gentle graze of the teeth, before he took Geralt along the flat of his tongue to the back of his throat, moaning in pleasure.

Geralt tilted his head back, eyes closed and carefully thrust forward with a lazy, measured rhythm. He splayed his fingers across the back of Eskel's head and growled happily when he sucked hard, taking him deeper and faster. Geralt's breathing became more ragged the closer Eskel drove him, and finally devolved into quiet gasps as his legs threatened to give way. When he came, Eskel's hands lifted to clench the curves of his ass and keep him buried deep in his mouth. Geralt ran his thumb over the arch of Eskel's throat as it bobbed and drank him down. " _Fuck_ , you are so _hot_." 

Eskel pulled his mouth away, tongue running across his lips to mop up the last, lingering taste of salt. "Never been called that before…" And he laughed as Geralt fell on him with playful abandon. 

***

Jaskier set out early the next morning in search of Letho. He felt fresher and more alive than he had in months. Clearly Axii-induced sleep was the way to a long and healthy life. 

Eskel had been exceedingly gentle in his prying and, as a result, hadn't really scratched the surface. Jaskier had found it painful, certainly, but not entirely because of the brutality of Letho's invasion. The pain that Jaskier had felt reflected back at him had shattered his heart into pieces. He needed to find Letho. Needed him to know that _someone_ knew. That he was so very bereft, so baffled by the presence of love that it would mute his aggression and violence, and send him scurrying into the wilderness. 

It didn't take long. Jaskier went for a stroll outside the city walls and found a small village about two miles away. In the quiet, dingy tavern, he found Letho propping up the bar and threw himself gracelessly onto the bar stool next to him.

"I sincerely hope you haven't got your two puppies in tow, Jaskier."

"No puppies. Just me. Same again?"

Letho looked into the bottom of his tankard and nodded. He tipped his refilled drink in thanks and proceeded to knock back half in loud, thirsty gulps.

"You were surprised. That I loved him."

Letho stared at the bar and sniffed. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"Witchers aren't loved… they're hated. Used. Murdered and beaten. Not loved," he took another swig. "If you've come to talk about love and romance, bard, you've come to the wrong person."

"No, I actually wanted to talk about you."

"Me?"

"Yes," Jaskier shifted in his seat and took a tentative sip of ale. No, no - it was vile and watered down and urgh. "I felt it, Letho. When I fought back. You're lonely. And you're an asshole to cover it up."

Letho raised an eyebrow. "Thank you for that insight. Anything else?"

"If you are lonely, then why do you push people away? Why not just… be with someone?"

"Because they always leave."

"Well, not all relationships last, you need to keep playing the field unti--."

"No, Jaskier. They don't leave voluntarily," he wasn't looking anywhere but at his drink. "I am the last of my School. The last died to a pack of ghouls of all the bullshit deaths."

"I'm sorry…"

"Don't be. He was a dick," he shrugged. "Point is… to be the last of your kind. To live long enough to watch everyone you know, everyone that you, uh…"

" _Loved_ , Letho. You can say it without bursting into flames."

"Right, yeah… but to watch them all die. Eventually, nothing can stop the… empty."

"Oh, Letho…"

"No, my drink… it's empty. Want another?"

"Oh right, of course. Bar keep!" Jaskier summoned the man back over and indicated Letho's tankard. He noted from the corner of his eye that it was still half full. "I have been thinking about… what will happen when I…"

"When you die."

"Yes. I want to be with Eskel and Geralt forever. I want to be in our home, and I want to be in their arms, and I'm pretty certain Geralt already has about a hundred ways he could gift me with immortality… but every time I meet one of you, an immortal, a sorceress… you're always so sad. So alone."

"Mmm," Letho hummed into his drink, and then heaved a sigh. "Better to live only long enough to love, and not to lose."

"You know, you lot are all bloody poets at heart." Jaskier grinned.

"Oh fuck off. Are you going to get drunk with me or not? I owe you an, uh..."

"An apology?"

"Yeah, that."

"I have a price."

"I'm not sucking your cock, Jaskier."

"Oh my G--, no… that isn't…" The bard pinched the bridge of his nose. His reputation really did precede him at the most inopportune moments. "I have this… project, I'm working on."

"Oh?"

"I… when I realised how low and rejected you all felt, I decided I would… give you all - the Witchers - a hug."

"A hug," Letho glanced at him, brow raised. "You know how fucking stupid that sounds, right?"

"Yes, well, it's been going quite well actually."

"Did you get Lambert?" The first hints of amusement.

"Yes. He loved every second."

"Well, fuck…" Letho knocked back the rest of his drink. "Come on then, bard. Bring it in." One of those huge arms extended and practically engulfed Jaskier's narrower frame. He managed to stretch his own arms out and drape them over those massive shoulders for a light pat. When Letho let him go, he heaved a deep sigh. "Mm. You know what… maybe not so fucking stupid."

"Right?"

"One more drink, then you need to get back to your puppies. They'll trace you here like bloodhounds, and I'm not currently in the market for a new fur coat."

"Well, alright," Jaskier grabbed his drink and lifted it in a toast. "To mortality!"

Letho smirked. "Yeah… amen to that, brother."


	14. The Best Man (E)

As the snows abated and winter took its final rattling breaths, they removed Eskel’s bandages and inspected the new, livid scar on his thigh. The poison left behind by the graveir had slowed even a Witcher’s expedient metabolism, and Eskel’s other wounds had long since faded into his tanned skin. “It’ll go down. Always looks a bit grizzly at the start.” Eskel assured Jaskier, who looked ready to faint in despair at the state of it. Geralt inspected the scarring closely, prodding and poking until Eskel waved him away impatiently. “Stop fussing.”

The following afternoon Eskel was making himself a drink in the kitchen when Geralt surreptitiously walked up and kicked his legs out from under him. The wine cascaded over Eskel’s shirt and face, but Geralt was already sprinting out into the street. With a snarl, Eskel pursued him. Jaskier stared open-mouthed at the open door for several seconds before his wits returned and he threw his book aside to follow. “What in the seven hells…?” He staggered outside in time to see Geralt scaling one of the neighbouring houses by the gutter, with Eskel close on his tail.

The White Wolf was quick and wily. He made it to the roof and leapt the distance over to the next one before Eskel had passed the highest window. Melting snow and ice spattered onto the cobblestones below as the Witchers traversed the rooftops at full pelt, clearing distances that would have swallowed a normal man and sent him plummeting to his death. It didn’t take long for the citizens of Oxenfurt to take notice, and mixed murmurings of consternation and interest trailed in their wake. Jaskier paused to grab his cloak and followed them at street level, eyes turned to the sky to follow their progress; so fixated, he walked into several bystanders and had to sputter through a quick apology before continuing on. 

Every now and then, as the distance widened Geralt would stop and turn back, his head cocked to the side. On the third occasion, the purpose of this apparently erratic behaviour dawned on Jaskier and his face split into a wide grin. In the absence of the scaffolds and ruins of Kaer Morhen, Geralt was leading Eskel on a free run over the ceilings of Oxenfurt to test his injury. It was on a particularly tall, steepled roof that Eskel’s leg finally reached the limits of its recovery and it buckled beneath him as he landed at the edge. He fell onto his side and began tumbling uncontrollably towards the precipice. Jaskier cried out and ran forward - to do what he had no idea - but Geralt was already there. He slid down the slope of the roof on his feet with all the acrobatic finesse of an elven archer. As Eskel tumbled over the edge, Geralt fell onto his side and snagged an arm, his booted feet bracing into the gutter. “Too early.”

“I’ll catch you next time.”

“Hmm.” Geralt grunted, and pulled Eskel up onto the roof to sit next to him. Compacted snow melted into their trousers as they sat gazing down at Jaskier below, legs dangling over the edge.

Eskel inspected the claret stain on his shirt and heaved a sigh. “Did you really have to waste a good wine?”

“It’s a poor vintage, you didn’t miss much.” Geralt replied airily. He lifted a hand and waved it once at the bard currently gesticulating wildly at them.

“Twenty-six years, and you still come up with some mad Witcher ritual that I don’t know about!” The bard yelled up at them, arms waving in exasperation. “Get down here before someone calls the town militia.”

It happened thrice more. The second time, Geralt knocked a novel out of Eskel’s hands; the third, he slapped him so hard on the ass in a driveby that Eskel yelped and the fourth he forced Eskel’s face down into his bowl of shaving water. Each time Jaskier headed out to follow them at a more sedate pace; he never tired of watching them leap, twist and roll their way over those rooftops. Such an exhibition of their physical prowess without the added fear of a monster shrieking in their wake was a rare treat.

That fourth time, Eskel caught Geralt. He tackled him from a drainpipe and onto the ground in an alleyway. When Jaskier rounded the corner, it was to see Eskel pinning his quarry to the floor and rubbing the remaining shaving foam onto Geralt’s neck and shirt in retribution. He inhaled deeply at the crook of Geralt's neck. _Ahh, it was finally spring._ His mate was a truer indicator than even the shift in weather, or the bloom of fresh green buds. “Too slow, Geralt.”

“Mmph. Took you long enough.” 

“What’s my prize?”

Geralt smirked. “You’re sitting on it.”

“Hmm. I suppose it’ll have to do.”

Eskel pulled Geralt from the floor as he stood up, and paused long enough to squeeze a handful of his backside before heading home.

Barely an hour later, Geralt was smothering his moans against Jaskier’s thighs as he lay across him on hands and knees, his legs spread and his ass raised by the rough hands that held it there. Eskel intended to make thorough use of his winnings. He kept the pace slow and measured in revenge for the spilt wine, the damaged novel, the handprint on his backside and the mouth full of shaving water he had endured in the last two weeks, but Geralt was too delirious to complain. Every roll forward hit the mark just so at this angle, and his body _sang_.

Jaskier gripped the thighs either side of his head as he sucked along Geralt's shaft, assured by the taut muscles beneath his palms that Eskel wouldn't manage to drive the thick length through the back of his head with one sharp thrust. He could watch with lidded eyes from below as Eskel's cock pressed into Geralt in long, lazy strokes and hummed in appreciation when he felt Geralt's hot tongue lap across his groin. Weight propped on his elbows, Geralt gathered Jaskier's hips between his arms and wet his fingers with ample saliva. When the first finger teased at his entrance in time with Geralt's mouth on his cock, Jaskier moaned and pressed his head back into the mattress.

Later when they sprawled in a sweaty pile, Jaskier sighed. "Why is it that I always end up covered in come? And you two get to sprawl there like muscle-bound gods." He tilted his head and watched the firelight glisten across the surface of their skin and, not for the first time, wondered just how he had managed to bag the both of them. "Is it some kind of marking thing?"

"Mmm." Geralt rolled over onto his front and licked a long trail over Jaskier's chest with the flat of his tongue, tasting his own release on the bard's skin. Jaskier set upon him with a penetrating kiss that demanded a share. 

Eskel chuckled and smacked a hand across one of Geralt's ass cheeks."Filthy git…" A deep growl that betrayed just how much he enjoyed the debauchery. He gazed out the window into the murky afternoon sky. "We need to start organising this… wedding." The word still felt foreign on his tongue.

"Y-yes… we need some - Geralt, down boy - we need some help," Jaskier dodged away from Geralt's mouth, but accepted the consuming kisses pressed along his collarbone. "We need a best man for starters." He wove his fingers through Geralt's hair as those kisses continued over his chest. "Need guests t'-- ahh…" One of his nipples received some rather firm attention, and he arched off the bed. "Someone to offici--."

Eskel smirked. "Let me go draw up a list and some lunch. You better see to him before he eats you."

"Oh fuck, if only." 

***

“Lambert. It has to be.” Jaskier rubbed Roach’s neck and gazed down the path to the north. She was going to be a packhorse for the next few weeks; Eskel hadn’t been able to afford to replace the gelding the bandits had killed, and they would be travelling together for the foreseeable future. The mare didn’t seem to mind, and she whickered happily at Geralt as he passed her up an apple.

“Are you sure?” Eskel checked the straps that secured his satchel to Roach’s left side.

“Never been more certain of anything. He’s your brother. He deserves the honour.”

Geralt grunted in agreement and took the reins from Jaskier’s hands. “Come on, we need to cut him off before he gets out of Aedirn. If he still follows the same route, then we only have about a week.”

They found Lambert exactly where Geralt said he would be. He was already knee deep in a contract. In fact, he had clearly been more than knee deep, because he was covered from head to toe in the gore of his kill. Not a single inch of his skin or armour wasn’t coated in congealed, black blood and he was clearly furious about it. “Rotfiends…” Eskel’s nose wrinkled, his senses overwhelmed by the stench of it. As they approached, Jaskier could hear Lambert blustering and swearing. Having spent so long on the Path, Jaskier knew the bestiary almost as well as Geralt - or so he liked to think. Rotfiends exploded when they were injured, and if there were enough of them, it was impossible to dodge out of the way.

“Fucking _rotfiends_. Literally the _first_ fucking week. Obviously it would be fucking _necrophages_.” Lambert booted one of the heads near his foot and it went careening into a tree, bursting like an overripe tomato on contact. The ground around him was scorched from his liberal use of igni to ward off the worst of the explosions, but clearly it hadn’t quite been enough. He threw his silver sword onto the floor and punched his fist through the tree nearest him; the bark splintered and groaned under the impact.

“Lambert.” Geralt’s deep timber crackled across the distance as he drew Roach to a stop a respectable distance from the carnage. The mare whinnied unhappily and stomped her left foreleg.

“ _What_?” Lambert span on his heel to face the new arrivals, but the chagrin vanished into bemusement as he locked eyes on his two brothers and their bard. “Well, fuck… what do you three want?”

“We came to ask you something,” Eskel replied, picking his way through the maimed corpses that lay scattered around Lambert. “We’re getting married. We want you to be our best man.”

Lambert blinked owlishly in the silence, and then proceeded to burst into laughter. When the others clearly didn’t get the joke, his mirth faded and he gaped at each in turn. “Oh shit, you’re… you’re serious. When did you--? How did--?” He stepped over the corpses, and Jaskier had to fight every fibre of his being to stop from stepping away. “All three of you?” Jaskier nodded. The younger Witcher reached to Geralt’s chest and picked up his medallion, turning the attached ring over between thumb and forefinger. “Caerme… well, that was Eskel. You sentimental old fuck.” 

Eskel huffed, gritted his teeth and breathed a calming sigh. “Well?” 

Geralt pushed Lambert’s hand away, and he used it to wipe some of the grime from his face with the palm of his glove, but only managed to smear it some. “Hmm. Yeah, alright,” Lambert nodded. “I--... yeah.” A flash of white teeth, and Lambert turned back to the litter of his kills surrounding them. "Where are you going to do it?”

“Brokilon.” Eskel murmured, arms folded across his chest. “I need you to get the message to Vesemir.”

“Eskel, do I look like your fucking messenger boy?” Lambert snatched his sword from the ground and slid it onto his back once more.

“No, you look like the best man, and part of your job is to help us organise this. Do you want the job or not?”

“Alright, alright… write me down some details so I don’t forget. Need to cut a few of these heads off.” 

They wrote down the instructions for Lambert and Geralt insisted he take some money for a tavern room and a bath. When Lambert tried to refuse out of misplaced pride, the White Wolf growled at him and forced his fingers closed over the coins, dismissing him with a jut of the chin. As they walked away, Lambert called after them. 

"Wait, can I--," he paused and glanced at Jaskier, clearly conflicted. "Can I… bring someone? With me to… it." 

The bard almost leapt forward to hug him for that adorable request, the way he fiddled with his gauntlet and looked everywhere but at his two brothers and the bard, but drew back when he breathed in another acrid lungful of rotfiend stench. When Geralt and Eskel did nothing but blink, Jaskier took the lead. "Of course. Who is it?"

Guarded. "A... friend."

"Oh, a… friend, or a _friend_?" Lambert stared at him. Two big, golden eyes glowering from the inch of gunk on his face. "Alrighty, you don't kiss and tell. That's absolutely fine. We look forward to meeting her-" Jaskier squinted and saw the minute twitch. "-him? _Him?_ Him. Yes." 

Further down the path and out of Lambert's no doubt exceptionally sensitive earshot, Jaskier grabbed Eskel's arm and shook it. "Did you see that? _Did you see that?_ "

The Witcher groused and shook the bard off. "See what?"

"Lambert. Has. A. Boyfriend. He has a boyfriend. _Geralt, Lambert has a boyfriend and Eskel is acting like it's nothing_. Mr Noone Touches Me Unless They Want To Kill Me has a boyfriend."

"Hmm. Perhaps. Maybe it is just a friend, Jaskier." Geralt glanced over Roach's back as the bard practically skipped along the otherwise.

"No. I know that look. Even under his rotfiend camouflage. He wants to bring a potential mate along for your approval." Jaskier sighed, light and wistful from this revelation. "You know, I would have written him up as a ladies' man."

Geralt huffed and Eskel quirked a brow. "Disagree?"

"What does gender matter for loving a person? Male, female or inbetween somewhere, doesn't change who they are."

Jaskier nearly burst with adoration. "Oh Geralt, I love you." 

"Hmm." 

They headed south towards Vengerberg. 


	15. 'Til Forever

"Dryads hate humans. Are you sure it's safe to take him in?" Eskel gazed down the slope before them to the outskirts of Brokilon forest. 

The huge, sprawling expanse of alders, beeches, hickory, yew - amongst many others - stretched over the horizon from their vantage point. Already his medallion was humming against his chest from the ambient magic that spilled from its canopy, and Eskel nudged it thoughtfully with his knuckle. They couldn't see them from here, but Eskel knew there would be a retinue of archers awaiting them in the shadows. It was about now that the kingdoms of Brugge and Verden would grow bold and begin rolling barrels of pitch and tar to the borders, but before they could pad with straw and strike a match, the unlucky workmen would be struck down in a hail of arrows and the materials removed. No mortal army could penetrate either, not even the efficient, deadly infantry of Nilfgaard. The last bastion of non-human freedom lay before them; a very dangerous place indeed for their favourite human bard. Or so Eskel believed.

Geralt smiled at Jaskier. It was a small, soft lilt of the lips that warmed his eyes, and he rested a proud hand on his bard's shoulder. "They like it when he sings to them. You know how dryads like music. They can't get enough."

"How did you work that out without becoming their pin cushion?" 

Jaskier grinned, bashful. "Queen Eithne captured us once and I tend to sing when I'm nervous, as you know. So, there I was, bound up with Geralt, treant standing guard, and I started a rendition of a ballad I had written about Geralt's eyes, not that they knew that, of course, and…" Eskel listened with rapt attention as Jaskier recounted their dealings with the elusive, hostile Queen of Brokilon and Geralt led them past the treeline without interruption. In his messages, he had requested to meet a group of dryad priestesses at the ruins of Craag An, the only attempt the elves had ever made to build a town inside Brokilon's borders, and now it was just a matter of waiting.

Grateful that the warmer weather was upon them, Jaskier sat down on the mossy earth and leaned up against a fallen tree with his lute across his lap. He plucked tenderly at the strings and sang softly beneath the breeze that rustled its way through the canopy above his head. It took him longer than it really should have to realise his Witchers had stopped moving barely half an hour later. In fact, his eyes flickered open only when a three-fingered hand rested on his shoulder. He looked up into the delicate features of a young puck, his equine ears flickering in delight, with a broad grin revealing all of his long, pointed teeth. The bard squawked in surprise and his lute fell from his lap. He turned to look around him and realised suddenly that the entire clearing was now full.

The dryads and their retinue of fae had emerged from the surroundings woodlands in complete silence. Pucks, leprechauns, hamadriads - oreiads and leimoniads present too despite being so far from their natural home - and the dryads themselves. Beautiful and petite, their hair decorated with twigs, leaves and glimmering metals that Jaskier could not name, and their skin tinged green or chestnut in physical reflection of how closely they were bound to their forest. One of the priestesses stepped forward. “You have brought your little lark with you, Gwynbleidd. We are pleased.” She glanced at Jaskier fondly, her head tilted to the side, before her attention focused on Geralt.

Geralt bowed his head in respectful greeting. “Ceádmil, Wedd Brokiloéne. This is Eskel. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

She turned to consider the other Witcher now. Eskel was practically vibrating with tension, his eyes flickering across the various creatures surrounding him as he fought every instinct he had; Geralt longed to go to him, but knew he had to overcome this himself. As the dryad approached, Eskel stood his ground, tilting his chin up only when she reached a hand towards the scarring on his face. Her fingers were cool against his skin as she traced them delicately, and the palm that hovered over his mouth and nose smelled of willow leaves and spring. “You are concerned, Dhubleidd. You do not need to be. Geralt of Rivia and his kin are welcome here,” she drew her hand away, and then considered the medallion and its attachment on his chest curiously, turning her attention to each of the other two. “You are mated. And you wish for it to be consecrated. We will do this for you.” 

She smiled. A warm, beautiful flourish across her lips that Jaskier was definitely composing a poem about, and when she inclined her head in agreement, he had to fight the urge to bound across the space and embrace her in gratitude. She walked towards the edges of the clearing, “We will make the appropriate preparations. You have deliberately chosen Belleteyn, this was a good choice. We will conduct the ceremony at Ceann Treise.” 

“We have invited others. Five in total. A sorceress, two Witchers, the Lion Cub and… I’m not sure on the fifth. He will accompany Lambert. Can you assure them safe passage?”

A sigh. “Aenyeweddien. I hope he will behave himself.” She inclined her head. “We will exercise caution. If they follow our rules, then they have nothing to fear.” 

As she melted into the forest with her companions, Eskel rubbed his eyes, breathing deeply to ease the tension in his shoulders. “Geralt… Dhubleidd?”

“Black Wolf,” he brushed his head across Eskel’s shoulder in passing. “Welcome to the club.” 

“And Aenyeweddien?”

Geralt laughed as he removed a pack from Roach’s back and set it to the floor. “Fire Child. Their only experience of Lambert is his temper, and his love of Igni. They really don’t like fire here…” 

Jaskier chuckled as Eskel rolled his eyes and set about helping Geralt build camp.

***

Jaskier had celebrated Beltane many, many times before. His favourite of all the holidays. It had made his heart sing when Geralt tapped it shyly on the calendar one evening in Oxenfurt as his preferred date, and Eskel teased him gently for his softness. It was the traditional time to begin relationships of a physical nature, but also for long term commitments; many a successful marriage had been consecrated on Beltane, or Belleteyn as the elves and the dryads called it. Food, drink and love were the order of the evening; three of Jaskier’s favourite things, besides music, Geralt and Eskel, of course. The ceremony would begin at dusk at the start of the celebration, and the dryads had taken great pains to ensure the party could continue into the early hours of the morning. 

Their guests arrived steadily throughout the day. Vesemir was first and greeted his sons with a grasp of the forearm, before turning to Jaskier and indulging him with an embrace - _Jaskier privately updated his tally because two from the same Witcher still counted._ Ciri and Yennefer arrived together on horseback, and Ciri tackled Geralt to the floor as she bounded down from her stallion. “Oh my! I am so happy, congratulations.”

“Ciri,” Geralt extracted himself from his adopted daughter and then from the floor; he helped her up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to guide her towards their camp. “Come on, I’ve got some cider from Verden… you’ll like it.”

She beamed. “Tell me. Tell me everything. I want to hear how it happened.” Geralt left out some key details, obviously.

Yennefer paused by Jaskier. “Well, bard. It seems you have managed to tame his heart after all,” she glanced at Eskel, who astutely _did not_ look at her. There was no love lost between the two; Eskel had never forgiven her for her manipulation. “And not just his either.” 

“Nothing to it really,” Jaskier tucked his hands behind his back, innocently rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. “Honesty, love, loyalty and patience. Perhaps you ought to try them some day.” 

“Hm,” she smiled at him tightly, and took her time to examine him with those piercing, violet eyes; she alighted upon the white and grey that peppered his fading brown hair. “Quite. Grey hair suits you, by the way.” She walked away without giving him the opportunity to retort and joined the conversation with Ciri and Geralt. Eskel smirked at him and then busied himself with the task of sharpening the steel sword across his lap; more to occupy his anxious hands than in expectation of using it that day.

The next arrival could have stepped from a Cintran fairytale. The drum of hooves that approached the clearing faded, and the grey stallion nosed its way through the bushes, its rider ducking beneath low hanging branches. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open. The man that sat astride that horse was _beautiful._ The symmetrical, angular features of his face framed with a short crop of dusty light brown hair; intense eyes a deep, rich amber and skin the colour of dark honey. His shirt was open low down his chest, and Jaskier could see the Witcher’s medallion glinting next to a smooth, pale scar that disappeared under his collar. For Jaskier, the symbol was indecipherable from this distance. Full lips were pressed together in a thin line though as he glanced over those gathered at the ruined village. Geralt and Eskel spotted him quickly, and Jaskier couldn’t have predicted their reaction.

Eskel rose smoothly from his seat on a fallen log, steel sword immediately in hand, and Geralt was quickly at his shoulder with his own. Vesemir approached warily. The unknown Witcher drew his horse around to the side, but made no move for the sword strapped to his back, instead he glanced away over his shoulder as another set of hooves approached. 

“Wait! Don’t! He’s with me.” Lambert dropped from the back of his horse and lifted his hands towards his brothers and mentor, staying their weapons and their aggression. “This is Aiden… he’s my… uh, he’s the friend I was telling you about. School of Cat, but… not… there's no threat.” Aiden looked down at Lambert abruptly as his horse adjusted its footing, one slender eyebrow lifted, but he said nothing.

Eskel and Geralt had a wordless exchange that consisted of sharing a meaningful glance, a flick of Eskel’s head and a shake of Geralt’s. Jaskier would pry into that a bit more later. Swords disappeared back into scabbards, and Aiden dropped from the saddle of his horse. He paused by Lambert. “You lost. Again.”

“Yeah. Got caught up in some briars about a mile away.”

“I think you do it deliberately.” Aiden glanced Lambert up and down. “I’ll have my end of the wager later then.” Lambert swallowed, and headed into the clearing to greet Ciri without reply, leaving his companion to regard the bard next. Jaskier was surprised by the warm, toothy smile and the hand that was offered. “You must be Jaskier.”

Eskel and Geralt were occupying themselves with menial tasks, but Jaskier could tell their attention was still firmly on the exchange. He grinned in return and took that hand in a firm shake. “A pleasure, Aiden. I’m terribly sorry for your reception. I think they’re a little nervous about tonight.”

Aiden gave a single shake of his head. “No need to cover it. Our schools aren’t on good terms. When Lambert asked me to attend, I was surprised,” he glanced over Jaskier’s head to the man in question, smiling fondly as he watched him spar with Ciri. “I owe you a great debt of gratitude, actually. I am glad to get the opportunity to say it in person.”

“Oh? I… I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re…”

“I pursued him for years. Longer than the average human lifespan,” Aiden rubbed his chin, “But he was always so guarded. Pushed me away time and time again, even though I could smell the desire, and see his conflict. Shit, he wouldn’t even let me touch him. I had almost given up, and then one spring he turns up and asks whether I’d like a drink. It took me an age to wring it out of him, but he said he realised something that winter. It was alright for him to want things, and when he allowed himself to have them, he felt complete.”

“That’s… beautiful, but I still don’t understand.”

“You embraced him and said thank you, Jaskier. Don’t underestimate the power of your love, even in its simplest form. To someone who has only ever been kicked and spat on by life, it’s the small glimmers of warmth from unexpected places that make all the difference. Because of you, he decided to allow himself to want _me_.” He finished tying the reins of his horse to a nearby branch and turned back to Jaskier then. “Thank you _…_ for Lambert. He may be more difficult to handle than fire, but he is my everything.” And then Aiden just swaggered on into the clearing as if he hadn’t just _said that_. Jaskier wasn’t sure what shocked him more; the sheer depth of emotional literacy from a _Witcher_ or the fact that his impact on Lambert had been quite that profound _._ He stared at Aiden’s back, and then sniffled back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes as the Witcher rested a hand lightly on Lambert’s waist. 

When Geralt approached in concern, he fluttered a hand at him. “I’m fine, I’m fine… just… I think you need to give Aiden a chance. He seems… nice.” He flashed a watery smile as Geralt ruffled a gloved hand affectionately through his hair. 

***

When Geralt and Eskel had asked Jaskier what _he_ wanted them to wear, the bard had kissed each in turn and rested a palm on each broad chest. "You could wear your armour if you wish. This is _our_ world, not _mine._ I would have you as I met you." 

So they scrubbed and oiled their armour and pulled it on over clean clothes, Geralt moved to Eskel and adjusted buckles and straps that were already perfectly secure. Eskel took hold of his chin. "You fiddle with things when you're anxious." Geralt grunted, removing his hands only to have Eskel take his left one and bring it back to his chest. The heavy, sure thrum of the heart below his palm immediately brought calm to Geralt's own, and he leaned forward for a brief, grateful kiss.

Jaskier chose to wear his light green suit with a white undershirt, and preened when Geralt hummed his appreciation. "Thought it matched the… aesthetic." The bard gestured grandly at the surrounding forest, and was pleased by the indulgent chuckle in reply.

There were a few more things to finalise. Lambert spent the late afternoon with Ciri rehearsing his lines. His grasp of Elder Speech was nonexistent and he knew when to defer to an expert. But not Geralt. Never Geralt. "Vassesse deireádh aepe eigane, vassesse eigh fade’ar."

"No, no… listen, say it slowly, you're rushing. Va’esse deireádh aep eigean, va’esse eigh faidh’ar." She was careful to emphasise the flow of the vowels where he had tripped over them, and listened intently as he tried it again.

"Oh dear."

Lambert scowled. "Don't forget who taught you how to eat with a knife and fork." 

Ciri chuckled, squeezing one of his gloved hands in apology. "I'm sorry. One more time. We'll get it." With patience and gentle encouragement from his adopted niece, Lambert was ready.

***

The sun set and the dryads arrived to escort them to Ceann Treise, the beautiful waterfall that intersected the Ribbon river. The keepers of the forest had prepared it beautifully, with wreaths of leaves and luminous fungi hanging from tree branches as a source of light in the absence of fires and lanterns. A huge stone table sat by the river bank, ensconced in flowering vines, and on its surface sat a single stoneware bowl filled with a silvery liquid. The priestess asked the three betrothed to stand before her, and the others gathered a respectful distance away as witnesses. They were by no means the only spectators, and Lambert was jostled by a puck as it ascended the tree he was leaning against for a better vantage point. “For fuck’s sake…” He brushed his sleeve, and Aiden smirked at him.

“I must first confirm that all understand the commitment they are making,” she spoke clearly, in clipped Common, and the three inclined their heads. “A union made here today transcends death. It is for eternity. Three souls bound from this life into the next. Do you still wish to proceed?”

“Yes,” Jaskier was the first to say it and Eskel followed; Geralt almost forgot he was included because he was too busy staring at the other two as if he still couldn’t quite believe it. Eskel elbowed him without looking away from the priestess and Geralt managed his affirmation. A small smile threatened her mask of passivity, but she continued. From her robe she pulled a length of rope woven with natural fibres taken from the trees of the forest. “Kneel and place your hands together, please.”

The Witchers clasped their hands around Jaskier’s smaller one, and the priestess wove the binding around them. “Now you are bound one to the other, with a tie not easy to break. Take the time of binding, before the final vows are made, to learn what you need to know to grow in wisdom and love. That your marriage will be strong, that your love will last, in this life and beyond _.”_

She raised her hand and beckoned Lambert over. The Witcher left his vantage point, straightened his gambeson and stepped over to the tablet. As he walked away, Aiden could hear him murmuring his line quietly to himself in one last effort to check the pronunciation. He picked up the bowl in one hand and dipped his other thumb into the silver oil within. “Va’esse deireádh aep eigean,” he drew his thumb over Geralt’s forehead, followed then by Eskel. “Va’esse eigh faidh’ar.” Finally Jaskier, who beamed up at him a smile so big his blue eyes crinkled at the corners, almost _aglow_. The oil glistened in the warm light provided by the wreaths, and then faded into their skin. The medallion on Geralt’s chest hummed with the ambient magic of it, and he glanced across at Eskel who was looking down at his own in wonder.

Ciri punched the air in triumph and Yennefer smiled. The priestess took the bowl from him and Lambert carefully removed the binding without breaking the knot; it was now his responsibility to keep it safe and unbroken. An honour that, privately, he was extremely humbled by. Not that he would ever tell them. _Hell no._ As Lambert returned to stand with the others, Ciri gave him a huge grin and two thumbs up, and the priestess stepped forward to do her final piece.

“Repeat my words, and then it is done,” she waited for them to nod, before she continued. “I take you into my heart, at the rising of the moon and the setting of the stars, to love and to honour through all that may come. Through all our lives together, in all our lives may we be reborn, that we may meet and know and love again, and remember.” A brief pause after every phrase filled with the low rumble of the two Witchers and Jaskier’s melodic lilt. When they had spoken their final words, she reached down behind the stone table and pulled up a bottle of wine. “Then it is done, share this wine tonight, and bless a long and faithful marriage.”

Jaskier was crying. He lifted his hand to his face and felt the wetness of tears, and cleared his throat in embarrassment. As he hastily tried to mop them away with his sleeve, Eskel tucked a finger under his chin and tilted his mouth up for a gentle kiss; Geralt buried his face in his shoulder with a happy rumble and Jaskier’s heart calmed. “I’m sorry, I… umm, it’s all… very… I don’t think I’ve ever… or, I ever thought that…”

“Hush. Let’s get drunk… and isn’t there meant to be a consummation of these vows.” 

Geralt laughed. “I hope so…” 

***

Jaskier entertained the dryads and the fae with his songs, and the Witchers and the sorceress indulged in the moonshine, cider and wine provided by their hosts. As the hours drew on, Jaskier escaped his audience long enough to find somewhere discreet to relieve himself in the forest. As he stumbled back through the dark, he caught the sound of breathy, desperate whimpers and _had_ to take a look.

Crouching low to the floor, he found the origin pretty quickly. Aiden and Lambert had slipped away from the festivities for some privacy and Aiden had his lover pinned up against the broad trunk of an oak tree; Jaskier could only see the edges of Lambert, his naked shoulder and the hands that gripped into the bark behind him in desperation. Without the support of the knee planted between his thighs, he would probably have been a boneless pile on the floor. Jaskier’s human ears couldn’t hear the soft words that Aiden was murmuring into his skin, and he could only see the shift of his elbow as his hands moved lower to tug at the ties of Lambert’s trousers.

Aiden looked up then and locked eyes with Jaskier; the bard startled. To his credit, Aiden didn’t pause, only considered the bard with a raised eyebrow that his lover wouldn’t see. Downwind, Lambert was unlikely to scent Jaskier, but would be mortified if he knew someone was seeing and _hearing_ him in this state; his furor would be unmanageable. Aiden placed another consuming kiss against the side of Lambert’s neck, eliciting more of those delightful whimpers and slid a firm hand down the front of his trousers. “Aiden, _yes…”_ Raw and vulnerable, Lambert shook even at the lightest touches, and Aiden knew exactly how to play him. Reluctantly, Jaskier left them to it. As undoubtedly _hot_ as it would be to watch and listen as Aiden carefully undid Lambert, he doubted the ‘Fire Child’ would take it well if he found out; the explosion would probably cause a diplomatic incident with the residents of Brokilon.

Geralt raised his eyebrows in question as Jaskier flopped down next to him back at the riverside. “That was a long piss…”

“Yes, well… I came across something worth taking a closer look at. I think your brother has found a keeper.”

“Mmmm. School of Cat,” Geralt knocked back a mouthful of cider and dropped back onto his elbows. “Mostly lunatics, thieves and murderers. But… if Lambert is… happy, then…” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

“He doesn’t look like a lunatic. He’s pretty bloody tasty, actually.” Jaskier winked at the disgruntled look he received.

“Pfft, the most dangerous brand of crazy hides behind the prettiest of faces.” Geralt glanced at Yennefer subconsciously, and Jaskier laughed heartily. “What?”

“Oh, don’t worry. More wine?”

“When have I ever said no to more wine?”

“Good point.” The bard hopped to his feet and retrieved the bottle, just in time for Eskel to finish a long conversation with Vesemir and return to their side. Jaskier poured a generous helping into two goblets for his… _by the gods, his_ _husbands_ , and then kept the bottle to himself. “Well, my loves. I believe it is now… ‘til forever?” 

“' _Til forever._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haved used influences from pagan weddings here, with a more Witcher-y spin. Hope it ticks all the 'Fluff' criteria for you guys!
> 
> Also, yes, 'Following the Thread' can do one. You W3:WH players know where I'm at.


	16. The Wager (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brief interlude with just Aiden and Lambert.

_"I'll race you there. I know this forest well. The caravan passes through it quite often." Aiden reined his stallion in at the outskirts of Brokilon and twisted in his saddle to face Lambert. The Dyn Marv caravan - mobile home to the School of Cat - was always welcomed by the dryads, if only for the stories, music and alcohol._

_"Alright. Terms?" Lambert smirked. "If I win, I want to do the next few contracts together, no excuses, don't care about the money."_

_Aiden sighed. "You really are soft as fuck, you know that? I was hoping you'd demand some outrageous sex act. Lap dance in the middle of Toussaint, blowjob from a nymph while I watch..."_

_Lambert blinked in the sweet, owlish way he did when taken aback. "I, uh… well…" Aiden found it so very easy to tame that vicious tongue into mute bafflement._

_"That's fine. I am debauched enough for both of us," he sat up in his stirrups and peered into the gloomy woodland. "If I win, I want absolute submission. And I am going to take you. As much as I love your mouth and your hands, I want the rest too. Full disclosure: I will blindfold you and tie your hands and you will be completely at my mercy."_

_He looked straight at Lambert, one eyebrow raised in question. The Wolf was staring back, open mouthed. He shifted in his saddle and his horse adjusted it's footing. "Alright… I accept the terms."_

_"Good." And Aiden was gone. He had already worked out his route, and Lambert was left to pick his way through briars and dodge branches with the athleticism of a three-legged donkey while trying to put all_ **_that_ ** _imagery out of his head._

_Of course, he lost._

***

Aiden arrived at their rendezvous early. When he had suggested a whorehouse, Lambert had baulked, but came round to the idea when Aiden explained. He was going to be making a lot of noise and, if he was worried about being set upon by bigots and bandits, then he wouldn't relax enough to enjoy it. It just so happened that Aiden was intimately acquainted with the lady of the house at Novigrad and she was more than accommodating to his requests.

He knelt on the bed and yanked at the bindings attached to metal rings under the bed with force. The planks complained, but their integrity remained intact. It didn't matter; if Aiden was doing his job right, then they would only be to enhance the experience for Lambert anyway. His beta longed to submit, but he was self-conscious and a little bit proud. The cuffs were a prop, not a necessity. 

Now the oils. The bottles tinkled as Aiden ran his hand across the top, and he hummed thoughtfully. Chamomile was a definite _no._ The one time Aiden had tried to use it for a good hand job, Lambert's response had been lacklustre. "You smell like Jaskier. Gunna sing me a lullaby while you jack me off?" _Asshole._ Lavender was too cloying; anything too floral would bait that sensitive masculinity. He picked out one musky scent and inhaled at the neck; base notes of ylang ylang, with head notes of violet leaves and white tea. It was discreet, pleasant. Perfect. Aiden placed it on the bedside table, along with a second just in case. Now to wait.

The bath water was ready in time for Lambert's arrival, and the Wolf gazed inquisitively about the room as he stepped across the threshold. "This place is… expensive."

Aiden raised a brow. "Only the best. Bath's ready."

"S'fine, washed in the river this morning."

"Hmm," the Cat smirked. "I don't really mind, but… the things I am going to do to you this evening, you will want to be spotless. I know what you're like." 

Lambert swallowed and closed the door behind him. "Right…" His weapons had been taken from him - with difficulty and a lot of swearing - and stored by the front of house, so only his gambeson, armour and clothes remained. He carefully removed and folded them across the dressing table, aware that Aiden was watching him the whole time. "Don't know what you're staring at. You've seen it all before."

"It's for the very reason that you are conscious of it that I'm doing it." Aiden rolled his sleeves to his elbows as Lambert climbed into the bath. "That bite on the back of your shoulder. It's new."

Lambert grunted. "Not even a good story. Clearing nekkers and one little fucker popped out of a burrow while my back was turned."

"Sloppy…"

"Oh fuck off, I hadn't eaten in five days and the money was shit."

"Alright, alright. Lean back."

"I can wash myself." 

Aiden sat back on his heels. "Lambert, this evening started as soon as you stepped through the bedroom door. Are you reneging on our wager already?"

The Wolf breathed heavily through his nose and rested his arms on the edge of the tub. "No." He leaned back as instructed and Aiden set to work. 

Short-cropped hair scrubbed and rinsed, shoulders, arms and chest soaped and brushed. "On your knees." Aiden did his back and stomach first, and then his thighs. When the washcloth went between his legs and unabashedly up the cleft of his ass, Lambert straightened and one hand latched onto the side of the tub. "Easy, Wolf. There's a lot of preparation before that." Aiden grinned at the eye roll he received and finished his ministrations as tenderly as he could. When Lambert sat back down to rinse off, Aiden took his chin and tilted his head for a gentle kiss. He could still taste the remains of the ale and stew Lambert had eaten before as instructed; no fun in fucking a tired, hungry Witcher. Said Wolf sighed happily, water dripping off the hand that lifted to take a fistful of Aiden's shirt and pull him closer.

"How'd you afford this?" Lambert asked quietly as he pulled away, sitting back and glancing about in obvious concern. He was a pragmatist; a brothel this plush attended to nobles and rich merchantmen, not Witchers. There was no way Aiden could afford this _and_ to live for the next few weeks. He had either gone hungry, would go hungry or had broken the code.

"Trust you to worry about the particulars," Aiden grinned. "I'm not becoming one of the girls, if that's what you're worried about."

" _Aiden_." Lambert growled in warning, stern eyes demanding more than jokes. He leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the tub.

The Cat stroked a hand over Lambert's jaw, enjoying the bristle of his stubble contrasted with the softness of his lips. Lambert was a walking juxtaposition like that in every way. An emotional hedgehog, he was prickly and angry on the outside, but soft and warm on the inside; it took a skilled hand to pry him out of his protective ball. The nagging was born out of that softness though, and so Aiden just cooed at him. "Calm. I helped the Madame with a succubus problem, and she owed me."

"Owed you? As in, she didn't pay you for it…"

"I accept IOUs in special cases - no, no, don't lecture me. You know I hate that. Now, out you get."

Lambert climbed out without another word and Aiden dried him, smoothing his palms over bath soft skin and placing kisses on his chest, shoulders and stomach as he crouched down. He snatched the towel away when Lambert reached for it. "No covering up. Lay down on your front." A flick of the head indicated the bed and Lambert scowled; Aiden matched the stare and the Wolf backed down with the briefest curl of his lip. 

Lambert tilted his head against the mattress to watch Aiden pull his clothes and belts off and chuck them unceremoniously onto the floor. His body was something to behold - fine lines and athletic muscle shifting beneath honey skin - even his scars looked like elegant flourishes across an artist's canvas. His cock was a thing of beauty too; shapely, thick and long, it was already half hard and hung heavily between his legs. Lambert's mouth watered at the memory of what it tasted like. "If you looked after your kit better, it would need fewer repairs…" His voice sounded thick and slurred even to his own ears, and Aiden had only _bathed_ him.

"Oh my--, welcome to my bedroom, _Vesemir_ ," Aiden gave a sweeping gesture as he approached. "I'd gag you for that, but the noises you make are half the fun." He plucked the blindfold from the back of a chair, gazing into those amber eyes swimming with apprehension and more than a little bit of excitement. "Do you trust me to take care of you?"

"Yes."

"You know I won't hurt you."

"I know."

Aiden stroked a thumb across Lambert's eyebrow, and then covered it with the blindfold. He tested the tightness of the knot and cheekily flipped Lambert the middle finger to check his vision. _No reaction._ Good. "Arms." The Wolf lifted them from where they were curled beneath his head and Aiden carefully wrapped the leather cuffs around his wrists. There was enough slack in the rope to allow Lambert to turn, but not much else. Aiden could already hear his Wolf's heart racing as he adjusted to his new position as a submissive, and he allowed him to stew as he liberally coated his hands in oil. "You're so pretty like this… I think I'll do your ankles next time too."

Lambert growled and twisted his head, unable to shift the blindfold; the tug of the leather cuffs stayed his biting reply. Aiden tutted and climbed onto the bed to straddle his backside. Oiled hands swept up Lambert's biceps to his shoulders, kneading the tension coiled there until the muscles became pliant. As his attention drifted lower, he followed the map of scars with his thumbs. A Witcher's body was a storyboard of mortality; a tapestry of reminders that every mistake had a price, and that Witchers broke and fell just like everyone else. He paused at the freshest one, teeth momentarily clenched at the thought of his Wolf so hungry that he missed a nekker snuffling around in the mud. Aiden knew that hunger. It was a gnawing, consuming pain that made your movements sluggish and your senses dulled to compensate; no contracts, refusals to pay, bad or fruitless hunting. It happened to them all from time to time, and more quickly for Witchers as their metabolism voraciously consumed every morsel. _If only Lambert would drop his bloody pride and take an easy kill - a human one - when he was starving._

A soft whimper snapped him from his internal monologue and back to the task at hand. His hands had been working of their own accord, massaging down either side of Lambert's spine to the small of his back. Aiden leaned forward and mouthed at the back of Lambert's neck and shoulder, pleased by the responsive shiver. His beta was impossibly sensitive to gentle caresses and tender kisses; it pleased Aiden to no end when he teased out quiet mewls and goosebumps across his skin. It took a gentle bit of coaxing for Lambert to spread his legs enough for Aiden to plant a knee between them, and his thumbs pressed firmly down the tight globes of his ass. Toned, round and full. "You Wolves have very nice backsides. I checked them all. Must be a difference in the training…"

He received a disgruntled huff and Lambert tested the bindings for the first time, yanking his wrists down and growling when he made little progress. Aiden hushed him with a kiss to the small of his back as his hands worked down his thighs, gratified when the Wolf spread them further in appreciation and relaxed again. His balls were tight against his body, and Aiden stroked them with the tips of his fingers, but longed to see the thickness of his shaft, erect and desperate for attention. "Roll over." He shifted out the way long enough for Lambert to twist over onto his back, his wrists now crossed above his head and presenting an even more enticing image of supplication. 

Aiden topped up the oil on his hands and slid his right one down Lambert's throat, his grip just shy of too firm, and it had the desired reaction. His lover struggled instinctively, but as slick fingers and thumbs pushed down towards his collarbone, he let out a deep sigh through his nose. "Good… you liked that, didn't you?" Aiden purred, repeating the motion; this time Lambert threw his head back and his mouth fell open with a soft moan. _Yes, he liked that._ The Cat leaned forward to whisper against his jaw. "All mine. Good Wolf. Gorgeous Wolf." Where many liked filth and obscenity whispered in their ear, Lambert grew weak when he was told how loved he was. How special. How beautiful. When every other word ever spoken to you was full of bile, hate and contempt, the loving ones were like a tender caress for the soul. Lambert's fetish was love, and it made Aiden adore him even more.

Another whimper wriggled loose as Aiden's hands descended over his chest, teeth and lips following in their wake. Lambert hissed and arched as Aiden tugged at a nipple and then again as he administered hungry, sucking kisses down his ribs and hips. There was no urgency to it, and now Lambert was painfully hard and leaking precum onto his stomach. "Aiden, _fuck…_ you're… this…" Perhaps it was because he couldn't see, or because his agency had been stripped from him by the cuffs about his wrists, but every touch and kiss _burned_ with sensation. 

"I haven't even got to the best bit and you're already sounding breathless," he grinned into the tight abdominals below his lips, amber eyes admiring the thick cock to their left. "Hmm." He slid his hand over Lambert's balls and shaft, making his lover flex into his touch. "What a good boy you are." His lips followed, and he mouthed hungrily at the length against his palm, eliciting a keen whine. Aiden shifted lower down the bed until his own legs hung off the end, and shimmied his shoulders behind Lambert's thighs. He listened to his lover carefully - not just the delightful moans and whimpers, but the way his muscles flexed and rolled, his minute twitches and adjustments - to mind his pace. Even as he sucked over the tender flesh of Lambert's balls and then his perineum, he tempered it with all the moves he knew Lambert liked; rubbing a thumb up beneath his head, squeezing the base firmly before each stroke. When his tongue first lapped at Lambert's entrance, the Wolf tested those restraints again; his arms pulled down and one foot pressed into the mattress, pushing Aiden away with the underside of his knee. Aiden slid his hands up and moved those muscular thighs up and apart, head cocked to the side as he admired the view. "Mmm. Prettier than I imagined." 

"Just… _fuck_ … what…" Lambert was pretty much incoherent and arched when Aiden's lips pressed across his entrance again, kissing him as deeply and insistently as if it were his mouth. The Wolf pushed back against the sensation a second time, but Aiden kept his legs raised and out of the way with his forearm as he worked. Fingers still slick with oil, he teased one up the line of Lambert's ass and stroked around that sensitive opening alongside his tongue. His lover's body bore down on his finger as it slipped inside, muscles spasming and adjusting as Aiden moved his hand in long strokes. A choked gasp when a second joined, mouth pulling away so that Aiden could focus on playing and stretching virgin muscles.

"That's it, let me hear you," He pressed and teased around smooth walls, easing deep as Lambert lifted his hips to meet his knuckle. "This feels amazing, hm? My cock will feel even better…" The shuddering moan told him all he needed to know and Lambert's legs flopped to the side, no longer trying to push Aiden away, and only flinching briefly when a third finger splayed him open. It was so tempting to undo his Wolf right then, with just his fingers and his mouth, but Aiden wanted Lambert's first time coming like this to be impaled on the end of his cock. He didn't want low moans and breathy pants; he wanted to hear him cry out in ecstasy.

Aiden pulled his hand away as Lambert's thighs began to quake, and crawled his way up to bring their hips level. "Tell me you want me, Lambert."

"Y-yes, please. _Aiden_."

"You want me to take you, my beautiful Wolf?"

" _Yes._ Come on, _fuck_ …" Lambert thrashed his arms, panting and squirming as Aiden lifted his leg and settled the back of his knee over his shoulder. The next thing Lambert felt was the slow, insistent burn of his lover's length pushing inside. The blindfold slipped from his face as Aiden undid the knot behind his head, but it didn't matter because his eyes were screwed shut as he held his breath.

Aiden took a moment to steady himself - _holy fucking shit it felt good_ \- before he leaned down to pry his love out of his shell. "Lambert, look at me," he spoke gently, stroking the back of his fingers over the rough stubble on his cheek. When the Wolf's eyes flickered open, his pupils were blown wide, and Aiden smiled. "You need to breathe. Not quite as good if you're unconscious." 

"Right, yeah…" Lambert huffed a laugh, which turned into a choked gasp as Aiden rocked his hips. He threw his head back and gripped the ropes above his wrists. Heated lips pressed to the underside of his bicep and then the arch of his throat, whispering a litany of adoration against his skin. Aiden shifted up onto his knees, forcing Lambert's hips to tilt further so that he could drive into him deeper. His efforts were rewarded with the first cry of pleasure as he found his angle, and while one hand wrapped the thigh lined up against him, the other dropped to pump down Lambert's cock in time with his thrusts. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Lambert was grateful that his desperate cries would be camouflaged by the grunts and pants from the rooms next to them, but mostly he was consumed by the heat of the cock that made his entire body sing. The constant, smooth glide of the thick length that touched places inside him he never knew existed. Aiden tore Lambert's climax from him without mercy, and then continued the relentless snap of his hips even as the Wolf covered his own stomach and chest with his release. The post-orgasm sensitivity wrecked him, and by the time Aiden came, every muscle in Lambert's body was quivering. "Ahh, f-f-f… is that your…?"

"Yeah. Don't move too much. _Ahh Lambert…"_ Aiden grimaced as Lambert's ass clenched around him, allowing his leg to drop and both to wrap about his waist. "Do you know how long I've wanted to knot you? Half a century… no, more. _Fuck_ , it feels good."

"Mmm." Lambert closed his eyes, content. One cracked open again as he felt Aiden poke at the medallion in the centre of his chest. "What are you doing?"

"You came on your medallion." Aiden craned his head forward and took the pendant in his mouth, causing Lambert's to drop open in shock, and proceeded to suck it clean. When he dropped it back into Lambert's chest, it shone with saliva, and he flashed a feral grin. "Every part of you is mine, Wolf. Your cock, your sweet ass… your medallion. Next time, I'm gunna' bite you and then everyone will know."

"You… want me… for good?" 

Aiden cocked his head to the side, but didn't answer straight away. Instead, he shifted a little higher - eliciting an uncomfortable grunt - and undid the straps at Lambert's wrists. He was able to carefully slide out moments later and his lover groaned, part relief and part disappointment at the feeling of emptiness after being so _full_. The Cat laid on his back and gathered those broad shoulders in his arms. "Yeah. For good."

There was a long silence as Lambert rested his head on Aiden's chest and listened. He didn't need to say anything, because Aiden could feel the uncertainty humming from his skin. He knew enough about his Witcher's past to understand his distrust. His _fear_ of being touched, and then of being abandoned, came from a time even before he had been inducted into the Witcher brotherhood. Many Witchers knew or remembered little from their past life. Lambert did not have that luxury. He remembered the bone-cracking force of his father's fists and boots as if it were yesterday; the vitriol and the disgust he had received as a human child, let alone as a mutated adult, left invisible scars that had healed twisted and raw. The aggression and anger were parts of armour he had forged long, long before the first mutagen entered his system.

"I won't abandon you, Lambert," Aiden whispered softly. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to either. I will always be here."

"I… uh, I'd like to be your mate," his voice was almost too quiet to hear. The admission hesitant as if he were worried the offer would be snatched away if he looked like he wanted it.

"I have one small price." Lambert tensed, but Aiden wasn't worried. He continued, "Stop telling people I'm your friend. Makes me feel like you're embarrassed by me. It pissed me off when you did it in Brokilon."

"I'm sorry…"

Aiden tightened his embrace. "Forgiven," he paused. "Master, Esteemed Majesty or Sir will do."

"Oh my fucking god you're a prick." Lambert wriggled free with an incredulous laugh. "I will suck Geralt's cock before I call you master."

"And how do we get hold of Geralt to make this happen?"

"Well, I did have another hard on, and now it's dead, so thanks for that…"

"Hmm. Alright, well, seems I will have to convince you to call me master in the absence of Geralt's services. Maybe I'll make you scream it while I'm grinding into you. I've also always wanted to see what a Wolf looks like in a harness, nice leather one that I can clip a tether to..." Aiden laughed at the shocked stare he received, and then spied more than a twitch of interest between Lambert's thighs. He pulled his Wolf back. "Here, let me help with that."

The Madame had great difficulty explaining to the guests that the whore currently making a man moan and cry out in ecstasy was not one she could procure for them. Although, they were welcome to ask themselves should they feel brave enough.


	17. A Reflection of You (E)

Jaskier tapped a percussion on the body of his lute. _Bm. Bm. Bm-bm. Bm._

“Not quite…” 

_Bm. Snap. Bm-bm. Snap._

“Better… what do you think?” He looked at the leprechaun to his left who gave him the thumbs up. “Right, let me hear that fiddle again…” The diminutive creature put the instrument to his shoulder and played the upbeat section for the melody on repeat three times through; Jaskier closed his eyes and shimmied his shoulders in time. “Yes. _Yes._ Perfect. Now you… you need to pick up this. Ready.” He pointed to the puck at his right foot and tapped his knuckles against his lute again, snapping his figures at the correct intervals. The puck tilted his head and then drummed his palms against the hollow wood of the fallen tree they were seated near, clapping his hands instead. Jaskier grimaced in apology, “Oh, yes, sorry… of course. Right. Are you ready?”

His two companions were by no means the only visitors he had that afternoon. Three dryads sat perched in a nearby tree, with three of their smaller relatives, the hamadriads, sitting nearby. Several forest and meadow nymphs that Jaskier couldn’t name hovered in the canopy and he was pretty sure he could see three big pairs of yellow eyes gazing out at him from the gloom. _He tried not to think about it._ It was easy to get lost in the music like this anyway. These creatures had no coin to give, but they had been enamoured with him since he had recited his first verses - granted, for his life - all those years ago. He was more than happy to oblige their interest while he was here. How many other bards could boast to have fans such as these?

He drummed against his lute again to give the puck his rhythm, patiently tapping away until the creature had the right pace, and then he flicked a hand at the leprechaun who obediently started coaxing that sweet little tune from his fiddle.

> _"Sing for the lost, for eternal affairs,  
>  Sing to raise our spirits in great despair.  
>  Through the ashes of oblivion.  
>  Quick and unseen like the dragon's offspring  
>  for we owe no debts and bow to no king,  
>  Every war has its costs and we've paid  
>  won by the bond of the party we've made. _
> 
> _Warn with a call that the battle starts now  
>  as the demons listen we strike them down.  
>  Fighting back the rifts of blood.  
>  Sent from the sky lies an angel in need  
>  give him muse to strengthen and words to heed.  
>  Heaven's doused and set alight.  
>  We're knocking on the gates of hell tonight.” _

He grabbed his lute and began to strum a wistful tune that matched the whine of the fiddle for the chorus, eyes closed, a huge grin plastered across his face. It was at this point that Eskel arrived at the edge of the clearing; he folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against a nearby oak tree. Watching Jaskier in his element was always a treat and, like Geralt, Eskel had realised that he was at his most relaxed and open as an artist when he wasn’t trying to scrape a living.

> _“Broken swords and dragon's bones,  
>  Scattered on the way back home,  
>  Beating to the sound of clashing steel.  
>  When they're on our heels  
>  now, chant the tales and legends told  
>  strengthened by the hymns of old,  
>  Weathered as this winding road is long,  
>  So we sing our traveler's song.” _

His lute fell silent, and he matched the puck again with a light percussion. Geralt joined Eskel at his post by the tree, his smile soft and pupils wide; he had just seen Ciri off through one of Yen’s portals, but the flutter of sadness was soothed away by his bard’s voice. He had never known a human to take to the magical and the mystic like Jaskier. 

It had started slowly, of course. In their first few years together, the bard had been rightfully wary of the entities they encountered, but every time he intervened on a contract, every time he saved a life or watched Geralt spare one, he seemed to grow fonder of this strange world they shared, and the even stranger creatures it contained. Now they flocked to him, these magical creatures, in much the same way that Eskel and Geralt had. His free smiles, his voice, his affectionate soul; the magnetism was undeniable and shone like a beacon to those _other_ enough to be able to sense it.

> _“Play out a spell in your sequence of chords,  
>  to inspire and sharpen our rusted swords.  
>  Echoing the whisper of the trees.  
>  Creep 'long a path where a thousand bards failed  
>  from the thick Brokilon forest trails.  
>  Come from afar to set prisoners free,  
>  Into dark tangled depths from the open sea.” _

Another chorus, another verse, and Jaskier free-styled to a close, ooh-ing, ahh-ing and strumming enthusiastically on his lute. When he struck his final chord it was met with a twitter of adoration from the surrounding fae, and then rather boisterous applause from the two Witchers at the edge of clearing. Jaskier flushed bright red and rose to his feet at the insistence of the leprechaun that tugged at his shirt sleeve, and joined both creatures in a low bow. The three dryads giggled and bounded over to him, one pinched his cheek while another ruffled his hair. “Umm, yes, thank you ladies… well, _ow, that was my backside…_ I’m spoken for now, you see. I… _I really don’t think that’s entirely appropriate..._ ” 

Eskel and Geralt were finding it too funny to intervene. Both stood smirking with folded arms as Jaskier tried to dodge and weave the dryads’ attention without offending them. After all, he was pretty certain they could snap him like a twig… or at least their treant friends could. Eventually, Geralt came to his rescue, with Eskel close at his shoulder. “They love a fertile male, Jaskier. Saves them kidnapping their next generation,” he smirked. “Witchers are a bit of a waste of space in that regard.” They glanced him up and down before departing, the third sister fluttering Jaskier one final wave.

“Just leave me to get _molested,_ why don’t you?” Jaskier glowered. He was almost cross enough to resist Geralt as he scooped him into an embrace against his chest, but any mutiny melted from him at the brush of those soft lips. “Mmm. Alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmured, almost demure. “Watching you try to duck out of a flirtation rather than cannonball into it is a novelty still… we wouldn’t have let them hurt you.”

“Hurt me? Geralt, my love, I regularly take a pounding from a Witcher. I’m sure I would have managed.” The bard drew away and straightened his doublet officiously. 

Eskel snickered and slapped his ass on the way past as he headed into the woodland. “Going to sort some food. I heard Geralt’s stomach growl at thirty paces.” 

“You know the way to a man’s heart,” Geralt murmured wistfully, one palm patting his abdomen. Eskel shouldered his crossbow and stooped to pick up a set of premade traps left coiled by their packs. The dryads were touchy about hunting, but realised that their guests needed more than berries and good will to survive their stay. Jaskier seated himself on a flat boulder next to his bedroll and called Geralt to him with a crook of his forefinger. The Witcher sat obediently between his legs when he motioned to the floor, shuffling back as close as he could.

“Did Lambert and Aiden say where they were heading?” He spread his knees far enough to accommodate Geralt’s broad shoulders. Clever fingers stroked their way through the mane of white before him, tucking loose strands behind Geralt’s ears, before working their way underneath his open collar. No armour, no gambeson, Geralt’s baggy shirt was an opportunity too enticing to ignore, and Jaskier worked his way across his mate’s exposed neck and collarbone.

“Novigrad. Aiden said something about collecting on a wager. Lambert looked a bit…” He trailed off. Jaskier wasn’t sure whether it was an inability to place his brother’s emotional state, or the distraction caused by the gentle caresses fluttering across his skin. A shiver of delight as Jaskier’s fingertips swept across his shoulders probably indicated the latter was true.

“Ciri and Yennefer? When are they heading home?” The bard returned to Geralt’s head, circling his thumbs at the base of his neck, his fingers splayed up over his ears and occasionally drawing back to run his nails lightly across his scalp. With all the travelling, the company and the revelry, it felt like an eternity since Jaskier had been allowed time to fuss and coo over his omega, and he craved the intimacy of Geralt’s submission, no matter how slight. 

“They’ve headed into Vergen for the day. Yen--,” He stuttered as Jaskier’s fingers ghosted under his ears and around the front of his throat, head tilting back as they gave the slightest squeeze before sliding down to his collarbone. “Yennefer said she had something to collect.” Jaskier’s hand swept up to take his jaw and draw his tongue across the seam of his lips, but when Geralt’s mouth opened for more, Jaskier drew away and tsked at him. Geralt didn’t quite manage to clamp down on the needy whine before it escaped his throat.

“Oh, my beautiful boy,” Jaskier’s fingers tightened in Geralt’s hair and pulled his head to the side, lips pressing now to the soft skin beneath his ear. “We’ve neglected you over the last few weeks, haven’t we? No release of any kind. Would you like one now?” He loved it when Geralt was pushed into voicing his desires. He was a man of few words in all areas of his life, but Jaskier knew it added a new height to his enjoyment to beg. All those years ago, when he had been shamed and hesitant, Geralt would have rather bitten through his own tongue, but now he melted under Jaskier’s hands and readily fell to his instincts. _It just felt too good._

“Yes,” his voice a low rumble as Jaskier continued to pet his hair and shoulders, hot lips on Geralt’s neck caused the first stirrings of interest between his legs. Jaskier's tongue darted out, rasping across the stubble on his jaw, before he pulled Geralt's head back against his shoulder again to sweep a hand down the front of his chest. His skin was growing warmer, flushing as his heart fluttered a little faster, and Jaskier knew he had him.

“Ask me, Geralt,” the bard murmured into his ear. "Ask me for what you want."

"I want a… kiss. And I... want you to touch me. _Please_ , Jaskier." Breathless. Needy. _A good start._

The bard withdrew his hands and Geralt huffed in disappointment. Not for long. "Stand up. Boots and trousers off." His omega glanced at him with a furrowed brow, but Jaskier just jutted his chin, and waited patiently as Geralt rose stiffly to his feet and shed the requested items. The hem of his shirt barely fell low enough to cover his modesty, and Jaskier wetted his lips as his eyes traced the curve of the shapely thighs exposed beneath. He slipped from his seat to his bed roll, cushioned by his pack against the rock, he beckoned Geralt over. 

His mate straddled his lap, knees splayed wide to bring him low as two large hands scooped under Jaskier's jaw and tilted his head up for that kiss. It was slow and indulgent, and Geralt drew away only slightly to nip and suck on Jaskier's lower lip. The bard swept his hands over taut thighs, thumbs pushing into the groove between tense muscles and Geralt rocked his hips forward with a grunt. Jaskier grinned into his lover's mouth, "Impatient." Geralt's cock rubbed over the front of his doublet in search of friction, but Jaskier knew he could be reduced to further desperation. He ran his fingers over narrow hips and tilted his own head back to tempt Geralt to shuffle even closer in search of his lips again. Jaskier gripped and kneaded the globes of his ass, cupping beneath and sliding his fingers into the crease between his legs. It elicited the first breathy moan and Geralt pushed down, splaying further in a silent request. His cock now throbbed, leaking precum over the silk material it rubbed into. Jaskier couldn't help it, "Beg me."

" _Touch me_." Strained.

"Where, Geralt?"

"Inside."

"Very abrupt… doesn’t sound like you really want it."

"Jaskier, _please._ Put your fingers inside me… _fuck_ , make me come."

" _Better_." 

Jaskier slid one hand between Geralt's legs and teased over his entrance in firm circles. Slick coated him quickly as Geralt moaned again, and Jaskier didn't need to do much more as his beautiful omega pushed down, hips rolling as he fucked himself on the two offered fingers. When Jaskier gently inserted a third, Geralt gasped and keened, big hands tangled together behind Jaskier's head and pulled his face flush into his chest as he arched. Jaskier used the opportunity to press deep and tease across all the sensitive areas he knew so well. Geralt worked himself to his first climax; the sensitive head of his cock gliding over smooth silk, the catch of neat buttons sending shocks of pleasure through his groin and Jaskier working him expertly on the inside. He bit back his cry, strangling it in his throat, as he came in hot spurts over Jaskier's front.

The bard frowned as Geralt's pants abated. "Why did you do that?" He withdrew his fingers carefully, resting the palm against the bare thigh to his right.

Geralt blinked. "Sorry, I'll wash it…" A low rumble as he gazed blearily at the strips of milky white across the rich violet of Jaskier’s doublet.

"Geralt, really? You have literally come in my hair before and I didn't bat an eye, you know what I mean…"

The Witcher shifted uneasily, avoiding Jaskier's gaze. _He did._

" _Geralt._ " Jaskier's voice stern, he grabbed his mate's chin and forced him to look down at him. "Why did you stifle yourself?"

"Urf, the dryads… and… I just..."

"The dryads," he murmured, deadpan. "The same creatures that live in nature, observing _everything_ that nature does and is. You think they haven't seen or heard two mates enjoy each other before? Anyway, what's the difference between this and a tavern room? Or in the middle of a forest while we're working?" He insisted that Geralt look at him, tugging his chin when those amber eyes tried to drift away. "Don't be prudish. This is possibly the safest, least judgemental place outside of our home." 

Geralt swallowed, and then nodded. Jaskier released his chin to stroke up along his jaw; Geralt closed his eyes and tilted into the caress with a happy purr, which caused Jaskier's lips to flourish into a coquettish grin. He coaxed his mate down for one of those kisses he loved so much, and then mouthed along his jaw back to his ear to issue his commands. "You're going to ride me now. And make yourself come again. This time, you will not stay quiet." Geralt shuffled back enough to undo Jaskier's breeches, calloused fingers stroking the thick length that they freed until it quivered and leaked with desire. Jaskier took Geralt's hips and tugged him insistently, moaning against the hard chest beneath his mouth as Geralt sank down onto him.

Jaskier was thicker than the sum of his fingers and Geralt took a moment to adjust to the familiar pressure that filled him. It was a consuming, glorious heat that provided relief even before his orgasm. There was nothing like being filled by your alpha, their hands on your hips and their scent overpowering your senses until your entire world was just _them_. In the spring, it often had to be a hard rut that made his eyes roll into the back of his head to slake the savagery of his need, but any other time it could start like _this_. This gentle, slow dance that made Geralt tingle and hum all over, and his body accepted it greedily. He rocked his hips and this time couldn't bite down on the noises he made even if he wanted to, especially when Jaskier gripped his hips and gradually increased his movements until he was spearing himself fast and deep, his second hand curling around Geralt’s cock to match the tempo. “Fuck, _Jas-s-s…”_ Geralt gasped, low voice raw and deep, as he came for a second time. This time it was more overpowering, more _complete_ , and he shuddered and gripped Jaskier’s shoulders for anchorage. 

“Well, that’s a lovely sight to return to,” Eskel murmured as he placed the three rabbits he had snared over a fallen log, lower lip between his teeth as he hummed in appreciation. He met Geralt’s eyes, his pupils huge and his expression dazed, and grinned. The sight and scent of his two mates locked together immediately stirred Eskel’s interest, and he palmed his cock through his breeches, adjusting rather than relieving for the moment.

“Feed me… and I might be ready for round three…” Geralt rasped, still draped over Jaskier like a giant, heavy blanket. The bard didn’t mind, and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s back to hold him close, head tilting back against the rock behind him.

“Geralt, your stomach is a bottomless pit. I have no idea how you’re not the size of a yakshas,” Eskel took out his hunting knife and set to work, allowing his eyes to wander back to the two centres of his world, still coiled together and content, whenever the fancy took him.

***

“This is a very generous gift, Yennefer,” Jaskier read the letter through a second time to check he hadn’t read it wrong. His mind had been in the clouds for the last two days, and so he wouldn’t be surprised if he had misinterpreted. But no… there it was in beautifully executed calligraphy. “Master Pawel is… at the top of his field.”

The sorceress smiled; a tight curl of her lips that never seemed to make it all the way to her eyes. “It seemed quite fitting,” she gazed past him to watch Geralt and Eskel continue to pack up the camp. Lambert and Aiden had left several days ago and, while it was a pleasant interlude to spend time with Geralt and Jaskier in the haze of marital bliss, there was only so long she and Ciri could abandon matters of state. “He never could fathom why nobles and kings had images painted of themselves. Saw it as a vanity and a waste. But I have a feeling he would covet an image of you for an eternity.”

There was a barb there and Jaskier felt it rake across his soul as readily as a briar across his skin. An eternity was not something he could give to Geralt. Not in this life. So a pale image of his memory would have to suffice. Oh, she could be a right _cow_ when she wanted to be. He didn’t respond verbally, but smiled brightly and tucked the scroll into his back. “I will get it organised as soon as we return to Oxenfurt. I know the tavern he frequents.”

“Ah, and one more thing,” she held out the reins to her mare; a pretty dappled creature, with a sweet and sturdy nature. “Take this. Geralt told me what happened to Eskel’s horse… Ciri’s passing hers over now. Her stallion is a bit hardier than this girl, but she will be able to carry you with little concern.” 

“Yennefer, this… thank you,” he took the horse by the bridle and patted her velvet nose, smiling as her lips twitched and curled in an attempt to nip playfully at his fingers. “How are you goin t--?” He looked up into empty space. _Portal._ “Bloody sorceress.” 

***

Master Pawel was ecstatic about being _the_ first artist on the Continent to paint a Witcher - not just one either, but _two_. Having visited Kaer Morhen and seen the bountiful numbers of portraits and images, Jaskier knew better, but decided to allow the flamboyant creature to bounce around his craft room in glee without correction. He was wiry thin, with unkempt jet black hair, an impressive moustache and a dishevelled soul patch at the centre of his chin. His blue doublet and black breeches were spattered in a rainbow of different paints and oils, which only served to increase Jaskier’s confidence in his ability. Every artist - no matter their chosen field - that buried themselves elbow deep in their work and splashed it over their _very_ _soul_ was worth their weight in gold, in Jaskier’s humble yet self-aggrandizing opinion.

“So, you will start tomorrow?”

“Yes yes yes!”

“And how many sittings?”

“Let me think - three people, relatively simple background, yes? Hm hm hm. Three sittings of four hours. The next three days. I can then add the final touches from memory… it is the faces, the _faces and the eyes_ that I need to see in person. Mmhm mmhm.”

“Ah, one more thing, they are…” Jaskier paused, mulling over his next few words. “They are sensitive souls. You… umm, many don’t realise… but, if you could be gentle with the remarks. They bear the scars of their sacrifices in visible ways that they are conscious of. And… well, I love them dearly and I don’t wish them to hate every moment of it any more than they need to.”

“Of course! I am a professional!” He seemed almost affronted, and then was quickly distracted by the thought of the task at hand. “And you look very youthful yourself, Master Jaskier. How many years is it now? Fifty-three. Barely a wrinkle in sight. _Witchers…_ oh, how _glorious. ”_

Jaskier left with a small smile on his face. Yes, glorious indeed.

***

“Stop squirming.”

“You’re pulling.”

“Pretty sure I can think of at least twenty wounds you’ve sustained that would have killed a man through pain alone, and you’re grouching at me for brushing your hair. Get a grip.” Eskel held Geralt’s shaggy white mane across one hand and drew the brush down gently. He knew he wasn’t pulling. _Geralt_ knew he wasn’t pulling. They were both dreading this portrait and hadn’t the heart to tell Jaskier, so they did what they did every time the bard asked them to do something they desperately did not want to do. They sighed, hunkered down and did it. “There, done. Are you going to tie it back?”

“Urf,” Geralt huffed and pushed himself out of the chair. “Jaskier wants it down… he says it looks… what did he say? _Lustrous._ ”

“To be fair, he’s not wrong.” Eskel grinned at the hostile glare he received and turned to duck into his sword belts. Jaskier had insisted they wear their armour and their swords for this damned painting; he wanted them to look like _them_ . Not some foppish shade, and so they had spent the morning cleaning and scrubbing every inch of leather, steel and silver until it gleamed. Eskel was pretty certain Jaskier’s fixation on their armoury now counted as a fetish, but he hadn’t had time to broach the subject. It would open some interesting avenues in the bedroom… _fuck._

“Eskel, you’re hard.” _Of course_ Geralt spotted it straight away, and he folded his arms as he tilted his head to the side; admiring. 

“Yes… give me a moment. Was thinking about… later. Need to sort it.”

“Well, I could...” Geralt started to move forwards.

“No, no, we don’t have time. The painter’s meant to be here in five minutes.” 

“Think of Letho. Naked. Maybe with Vesemir. Up against a tree, and…”

“Yes, thank you… that… that’s enough of that imagery.” He adjusted in his trousers and smoothed a hand through his hair. His heart rate had accelerated, and his palms felt clammy, but not for any pleasant reason. “Right, well, I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

“Eskel…”

“Mmm?”

“Come here.” Geralt walked by and took his hand. He led his mate towards the mirror, and as soon as Eskel realised where he was going, he dug his heels in. Geralt growled and tugged him insistently, pulling until Eskel stood in front of the mirror and Geralt could spoon up behind him, head resting on his shoulder. “Look… _look_. Now.”

Reluctantly, Eskel raised his eyes to the mirror, and flinched when he caught his reflection. He spent his life carefully avoiding reflective surfaces - mirrors, water, clear glass - or just gazed straight through it with a trained disregard. The very idea that the wreck of his face was going to be immortalised in paint for an eternity made him want to vomit, with disgust and anxiety in equal measure. 

“You are beautiful to me. Always have been. And Jaskier thinks so too. You always say he’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen, and _he_ regularly tells me how dashing you are. It's because your soul shines through your eyes. Everything you are, your nobility, your heart, it overpowers anything that's only skin deep,” Geralt ran a hand over those three jagged lines, from lips to eye and wrapped the other arm around his waist. “It’s time for you to accept these things as truths.” Eskel turned in Geralt’s arms and kissed him. It wasn’t deep or sensual, but warm and gentle enough to provide both with the fortitude they needed to head downstairs where their visitor awaited.

“Oh my _GOSH!_ ” 

Eskel almost reached for his sword - the silver one - when Pawel bounded towards him with impossible speed. Tactile hands reached out for his face, and then drew back with an apologetic smile as the artist bounced from foot to foot, gazing at each of them in turn. “Those _eyes…_ oh, I will have to remix the shade, they are… _golden_ . And, _white_ hair… and _look_ at those jawlines. The intricacies of the armour, and I have never seen sword hilts like those.” 

Jaskier cleared his throat. “Master Pawel, if we could begin.” He sent the artist back to his easel and approached his two Witchers. “Very dashing.” He had chosen to wear the light green doublet and breeches - Geralt’s favourite and now his wedding clothes - and his lute was already propped against the armchair centred at the fireplace. The bard reached out and adjusted Eskel’s collar, and then stroked Geralt’s hair behind his ears, before leading them over to stand either side of the chair. “One hand on the chair, the other tucked behind your back. Stand straight, chest out… head up. _Head up_ , Eskel. Don’t smoulder at me, save that for the painting. And one more thing...” He reached inside their shirts and found their medallions. He laid them over their chests, palm smoothing over the warm surface of the metal with reverence, gently tilting the silver rings that adorned the chain next to them. “Pride of place.” 

As Pawel set out his oils and swept a brush over the canvas to clear any dust, Jaskier lowered himself into the armchair and leaned to his right, legs crossed over as he got comfortable. Geralt grunted, “And yet we have to stand…”

“ _You_ are Witchers and can meditate with your eyes open. I now count as an _old man_ with a bad back. Stop grumbling.”

“Didn’t seem that bad this morning when I--.” Eskel reached across and silenced Geralt with a slap across the back of the head; he scowled, and then had to readjust his hair as Jaskier waved an insistent hand at him impatiently, having missed the slap completely. Eskel smirked. 

“Right. Keep as still as you can,” Pawel lifted his hands and squared up the dimensions in his mind. “A shifted foot or a dropped shoulder is fine, but nothing too… dramatic. Let us begin!”

Three sets of four hours was an exact prediction, and Jaskier had to work _very hard_ in the evenings to make it up to his two grumpy Witchers in between sittings. By day three his ass felt raw - pleasantly so, if he was honest, Eskel was very considerate - and his jaw was permanently aching. The finished product then took a further week to perfect, and the Witchers were out in town when two workmen delivered it to the house. With the ice and snow blanketing the streets, it was no mean feat to get it through the door without damage.. “No, leave the covering… I want them to be here. Thank you. Here’s a tip.”

So the bard waited. He stared at the brown cloth that covered the image in barely contained frustration, fingers tapping impatiently on the arm of the chair he had sat in for the three sittings. When they finally stumbled through the door, even he could smell the alcohol. “Oh for fu---, seriously? You knew it was arriving today. How much have you drunk to get in _this_ state? I’m surprised any of the taverns still have a drop left in their cellars...”

“Just a few,” Geralt still had a tankard in his hand and, with Eskel propping him up and _chuckling_ , had the audacity to pout. “Don’t be a stick in the mud.”

“I’ll give you stick in the mud. Come here, both… bring that dining chair.” Jaskier took the offered chair and stood up on it before the fireplace, reaching up to carefully unhook the cloth from the corners of the frame. He folded it across his forearm and held his breath as he stepped back to stand next to his Witchers. His mouth dropped open.

_It was beautiful._

Pawel had captured the regal majesty of the Witchers perfectly. Their broad shoulders and proud jaws made them as imposing and powerful as in life; their intense, golden eyes practically _burned_ from the canvas. Geralt’s white hair looked softer than silk, and Eskel had been wrought with professional care, his scars present yet somehow enhancing the stern, protective expression on his face. But both Witchers, as impressed as they were by their own representation, were fixated on Jaskier at the centre of the painting. Leaned to his right, his chin propped against his knuckles, his cornflower blue eyes alive with his mischief and intelligence even when cast in oil on canvas. His brown hair was peppered with silver, but Pawel had managed to capture the youth and the energy that the bard still retained even now he entered his autumn years. When Geralt reached a hand out to touch the image, Jaskier gently guided his fingers away. “No, no, Geralt. You must never touch. It will damage the image,” he held Geralt’s hand in his, and turned his eyes back to the painting. “Well, I rather like it… what do you think?”

They stood in awe for a moment longer. Even through their drunken haze, they realised the gravity of this single item. For Jaskier, it was another momento for him to leave behind, and for the two Witchers it ensured their memory of him could never fade or lose its colour. _Not that it ever would_. Jaskier was imprinted on their very souls for an eternity. Yennefer had bestowed upon them a truly beautiful gift, even if she had perhaps intended it to be a sly barb at Jaskier. 

“It’s fucking flawless,” Eskel staggered as Geralt flopped onto his shoulder, and then hiccuped. “But… I’d much rather have the real things… right now. Don’t even mind if there’s a bed.”

Jaskier chuckled, and rolled his eyes. “Sure you can even get it up? Sounds like you’ve drunk an entire brewery…”

“ _Jaskier…_ ” Eskel said his name, low and sultry, and the bard's heart fluttered. “Why don’t you come and find out?” Jaskier squwarked in alarm as the Witcher scooped him up, threw him over his shoulder and then proceeded to somehow carry him _and_ support Geralt up the stairs - Geralt, who was still trying to finish his tankard of vodka and walk at the same time, and yet was incapable of both.

By the end of the night, Jaskier could re-confirm yet another Witcher immunity. Alcohol appeared to have little impact on their libido. In fact, he was pretty certain it just made them hungrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter dedication: Saj_te_Gyuhyall - the wedding picture was a fantastic idea.
> 
> The song is 'Traveler's Song' by Aviator. Another fantastic tune. Check it out.
> 
> Pawel Mielniczuk is the lead character artist on the Witcher franchise. He's worked on all three games. Hats off to you, sir.


	18. Blood and Wine

Jaskier knew it was coming. After their previous season, in his heart of hearts, he knew it had to happen. The travelling, the sleeping rough, the lack of food on occasions… it had been hard. Harder than ever before. Geralt didn't say anything at the time, gently supporting Jaskier through the worst of it, but there had been a few times - a few perilous, heart-wrenching moments - that Geralt had almost been too late, or too far way, or pinned under a huge beast and unable to reach. Young and spritely, Jaskier would have been able to keep himself out of trouble, but _now_ … now he just _couldn’t._

It wasn’t that he was decrepit. Far from it! The long walks and horse rides that had occupied their spring proved his health and his fitness to be far better than a man of his age had the right to expect, and his _amazing_ skin care routine meant he continued to look absolutely delectable - Eskel’s words, obviously. His two voracious lovers certainly didn’t have any complaints. But the Path was not a pleasant picnic in a meadow, or a thoroughly enjoyable romp under the duvet. It was gruelling, cruel and dangerous. So, Jaskier now had to bid it farewell.

_It was time._

They sat quietly together in the living room, with the grate empty now that spring was beginning to melt into summer. The Witchers stayed at Oxenfurt longer and longer each year, loathing to leave their home and their loved ones behind. Eskel left that morning knowing what conversation had to happen, and had barely been able to pry himself away. He wanted to be there, to hold them both, but Geralt insisted this needed to be just the two of them, just this once.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice was impossibly soft, but the bard could still hear the pain roiling beneath the surface. His Witcher, his love, his companion for all these years, did not want to leave him behind. Every fibre of his being wanted Jaskier to be at his side, but he knew that if he was hurt, if Geralt was unable to protect him, to keep him safe and comfortable, then he was failing in every respect as a partner. He could not be selfish. The loneliness was a small price to pay for Jaskier’s life. “I...” 

He was struggling. Jaskier could see it in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and so he slipped to the floor on his knees and nudged his way between Geralt’s. One hand slipped over a stubbled cheek and he searched for those golden eyes. 

“Geralt, it’s alright,” he whispered, biting back the tremor in his chest. “I will be right here, my love. Waiting for you for when you return, waiting for you both. Our adventures have not ended, they have just changed a little.” He stroked a few stray wisps of snowy white behind Geralt’s ear and leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips. Geralt gripped his biceps without warning and pulled him close, crushed him against the hard leather guard over his chest and pressed to Jaskier’s mouth with unbidden ferocity. The bard didn’t resist, but he kept his own touches soft, and cupped Geralt’s jaw until he pulled away of his own accord. “Do not take foolish risks in my absence.”

“I won’t,” Geralt’s voice was hoarse and he couldn’t lift his eyes from the floor. “What will you do while we’re away…?”

“Oh, I have plenty to occupy myself with! The summer is so _busy_ at Oxenfurt. Lectures, seminars… the university have been asking me to return for years, and I have… well, I thought this may happen this year, so I accepted their offer,” he rested both hands on Geralt’s thighs and pushed himself up. “I’ve also started writing my memoirs. Somewhat sporadically, so I may make a concerted effort to finish them. _The Memoirs and Recollections of a Witcher’s Bard._ ”

Geralt rose slowly, pausing only to pick his swords up from where they leaned against the arm of the couch. Roach was already saddled and packed, and she waited patiently for him in the street. “The title is inaccurate.”

Jaskier’s forehead creased. “What? How so?”

A rueful smile. “You’re not our bard, Jaskier. We’re your Witchers.” Another light kiss to the forehead, and Geralt was gone.

***

The first few weeks were… difficult. Jaskier found himself sobbing uncontrollably several times - “Pull yourself together, man, by Freya’s sweet ass! They’ll be back in a few months” - and struggled to find interest in any of his usual hobbies or pursuits. Even his lute, as faithful a companion as Geralt and Roach, seemed pale and tuneless in his hands. 

As the summer progressed though, he felt the weight begin to lift. Writing about Geralt, about Kaer Morhen, about the many monsters - human and otherwise - they had encountered in the last couple of decades warmed his heart and helped his mind transport back to brighter, younger days. When he reached the chapters about Eskel - his nobility, his warmth, his beautiful baritone - he felt like they were both finally with him in the room.

He didn’t notice the autumn approach. Not really. He put on a few extra layers as the temperature dropped, and smiled wistfully at the turning leaves, but it didn’t really _click_ that summer was over until the first horrendous rains began to fall, and _then_ he began to worry about his Witchers. Was Geralt allowing himself a stop in a tavern for rest? Was Eskel keeping his shoulder comfortable? Were they both _eating_ enough? The worry only became more intense the closer that winter got; the harsher the weather howled. 

It was these thoughts that occupied him as he traipsed back home from an evening lecture, his portfolio tucked under his arm and cloak pulled tightly around his neck. He unlocked the door and then blinked in alarm as warmth flooded over him. Cautiously, he closed the street out behind him and dipped a hand inside his cloak for the small dagger he kept on his person out of habit rather than fear for his life. He kept his feet light, placing his heel down first as Geralt had shown him all those years ago, and he peered into the living room.

“ _Geralt?”_

The Witcher had been snoozing on the couch and startled awake. _Must be_ **_really_ ** _tired to have missed the door opening._ He rose stiffly to his feet and turned to face Jaskier with a gentle smile.

“Oh my--, are you wounded? It’s still autumn. What happened? Is Eskel alright? Are you--? Oh, come here.” Still sodden from the rain, Jaskier threw his portfolio to the floor and leapt into Geralt’s arms. The Witcher had shed his armour and his weapons - _why wouldn’t he for God’s sake he was home -_ and so the rainwater soaked quickly through his shirt. “Oh… I’m sorry. Here. I’ll…” Jaskier pulled away and undid the ties at his neck. “Please tell me something isn’t wrong.”

“Jaskier, it’s fine,” his voice - _oh how Jaskier had missed that rich, gravelly timber_ \- soft. “Here, come and try this.” Geralt moved away then to the writing desk under the window. There were three items - a bottle of wine, a glass and a thick pack of parchment wrapped in twine. He uncorked the bottle first and poured a generous portion of wine into the glass; it was a deep, beautiful ruby in colour and Jaskier took his time to scent it, eyes closed, as it was passed to him.

“Geralt, this smells exquisite. But I don’t understand.”

“Taste it.” He pressed two fingers at the base of the glass and ushered it to Jaskier’s lips.

 _By the gods it was wonderful._ What started as a tentative sip ended with Jaskier downing the entire bloody lot, and as he dropped the rim of the glass away, Geralt chuckled and rubbed the claret smudges at the corners of his bard’s lips with his thumb. Jaskier gazed at him, wide-eyed. “That was… where did you get this from? It’s better than anything I’ve ever drank in my life.”

“ _That_ ,” Geralt picked the bottle up again and turned it so that Jaskier could see the label, “was from _our_ vineyard.” 

Jaskier stood in stunned silence, staring down at the label. He recognised the name. Corvo Bianco. It was a famous vineyard in Toussaint. _Very_ expensive. _Very_ exacting on its clientele. “Are you… what…?” _Speechless._

Geralt looked very pleased with himself as he grabbed the package of parchment by the crossed twine with one hand, and took Jaskier’s wrist with the other, guiding him back to the fire. “I’ll explain.”

He told Jaskier everything. About the Duchess, and the murdered knights. The Cintran and Captain de La Tour. About finding Regis again - an acquaintance that Geralt had told Jaskier about before and thought to be dead - and about the treacherous Syanna. He told him about entering the Land of a Thousand Fables, a fairytale world, and about Dettlaff. How Geralt hadn’t wanted to kill him. How Regis had now been ostracised and banished for his part in it. Geralt spoke almost animatedly until this point, and Jaskier beamed at him throughout, his hands alighting gently on the papers his Witcher had placed in his lap. But as Geralt hesitated and sat back, his last words of regret, Jaskier lifted his palm to stroke his face gently.

“It sounds like you acted with honour throughout, Geralt. Do not accept burdens that are not yours to carry.” He stroked that bristled jaw until Geralt looked at him again. “I thought you only ever accepted coin for your services. A vineyard?”

The Witcher rubbed his eyes and leaned on the arm of the couch. “I realised many things these last few months,” he turned to the fire and Jaskier watched the reflection of the flames play in amber eyes. “I am done being the pawn of nobles, of sorceresses, of _fate_. I am… done with being lonely, and of always having to choose between two evils. Of having to go hungry, of having to say goodbye to you and Eskel and then risk never seeing you again for people who would sooner drive a knife through my back than pay me.” He sighed. “I saw the fear and the regret in Dettlaff’s face when I killed him. Nothing he did was of his own volition. Manipulated, blackmailed and betrayed. He was just another pawn. But I had to finish that contract, because I knew it would be the last time.”

“Geralt?”

“I am done with the Path, Jaskier. It has had its time with me,” he looked back now, studying Jaskier intently. “I will not say goodbye to you again, or to Eskel. Not for many years. The vineyard allows me - _us -_ to do that. I’m retiring.” 

Jaskier sat in stunned silence for the second time that evening. When he spoke, he was certain his voice would knock free the tears that hung in his eyes. “Y-you said Witchers don’t retire, I…”

“Witchers don’t travel with bards; they don’t fall in love; they don’t build homes in Oxenfurt; they don’t _marry_ ,” he murmured. “If Witchers don’t do all of these things, then I am _clearly_ in the wrong profession anyway.” 

The bard laughed, incredulous, almost insane and threw himself across into Geralt’s arms. The Witcher pulled him into his lap and held him while he sobbed into his shirt. It was an ugly, hysterical cry that Jaskier lost control of for a good ten minutes until it abated into shudders and sniffles soaked up by Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m… sorry, I…” he tucked his head under Geralt’s chin, breathing deeply and allowing the warmth of that familiar scent to bring calm. “These… papers. What are they?”

“Hmm,” Geralt grabbed them and brought them to Jaskier’s lap. “Contracts for the vineyard. Need you and Eskel to sign for joint ownership, and umm…” He coughed awkwardly, and shifted.

“What?”

“You always used to moan that I didn’t give you enough detail about my contracts, so, I… I wrote some things down, and I did some sketches to help with… uh… with the ballad.” 

Jaskier couldn’t get the twine off quick enough. He carefully placed the official documents back on the couch, leaning back into the crook of Geralt’s arm as he read through his Witcher’s familiar handwriting. But it was the sketches - _the damn beautiful sketches_ \- that held Jaskier’s eye the longest. “You drew these. _You_ drew these. _You._ ”

Geralt huffed, defensive. “Yes, I know they’re not quite that oil painting…”

“Geralt, these are better than the images in Master Dorregray’s books. You know, drawn by a _professional artist_ . Why have I never seen you draw in the nearly _three decades_ since we have been together?” The bard turned an accusatory eye to that rather bashful expression. “Bloody magnificent. And you couldn’t, you know, pick up a piece of charcoal every now and then to help a poor bard with his stories - _why?”_

“They’re not very… I… it’s not really…”

“No, stop talking. I am annoyed with you. Just sit and be a silent armchair.” Jaskier swivelled to rest his head on Geralt’s shoulder and spent the rest of the evening reading through Geralt’s story, occasionally prompting his _silent armchair_ to answer a few questions about a person or an event, and then finally, as his Witcher was beginning to doze. “What should I call this ballad?”

“Mmm,” Geralt opened his eyes, and blinked sleepily. “Blood and Wine…”

***

Eskel arrived a couple of weeks later, just before the first snow fell, and he looked absolutely exhausted. He sank gratefully into the bath that Geralt prepared and grumbled in appreciation when his lover joined him. “This season has been an absolute shocker,” he closed his eyes and leaned back, one arm wrapped lazily about Geralt as he sprawled over his chest. “It’s going to be a bit tight this winter money-wise.”

“Hmm. Don’t worry about that,” Geralt sat up, dipping behind him to find the washcloth and accepting the soap from Jaskier as the bard settled at the side. “We’ll talk about it later.” They washed Eskel together and lavished affection on him even as he threatened to drop off to sleep in the bath; he wouldn’t be his usual self for a couple of days until he had slept and eaten enough. Jaskier left them to soak and collected some hot food from the tavern nearby - none of them could really be bothered to cook that evening - and they ate together around the dining table once Eskel was dry and dressed.

“Come on, out with it, you’ve been casting each other knowing looks all evening and Jaskier is practically vibrating on the spot,” he leaned back, snagged his tankard and downed a generous portion of his ale. “I’m too tired for games.”

“That was your last season on the Path,” Geralt placed his spoon down into the empty bowl before him, and rose to his feet. As Eskel stared at him, he pulled the contracts from the desk drawer and brought them over to the table. “I completed one of those contracts you joke about all the time. For Duchess Henrietta of Toussaint. The payment was a vineyard.”

Eskel pushed his plates away from him and spread the parchment out on the table. He squinted at the elegant calligraphy as if concerned he was _seeing_ things. “Geralt, this is more than we earn jointly in a year… and this vineyard turns it over in a month.” 

“Mmm. There is scope for greater profits with a little bit of restructuring, and it comes with a very experienced attendant who we’ll be working with to learn the ropes.” He shuffled through to find the required document for Eskel’s scrutiny. “I’ve already started the planning phase for the next growing season, and we have a few workers on retainer.”

“So, we… this is ours,” Eskel spoke quietly, calloused fingertips resting lightly on the paper. “And, you… we’re retiring. Not walking the Path. Not… leaving anymore.”

“No more Path. No more goodbyes.” 

Eskel was on his feet and had Geralt pinned to the wall before Jaskier could blink. One forearm braced across Geralt’s chest, his expression intense as it struggled to find shape. Jaskier rose slowly, but didn’t intervene; Geralt was still relaxed, his hands gentle as they rested on Eskel’s waist. Geralt had told Jaskier once that sometimes the emotions mixed themselves together. Witchers _knew_ what anger, sadness and happiness all felt like and when they were appropriate, but because they had to keep them abstract most of the time, their minds struggled to process the more complex ones and produce the correct response at first. Sadness came out as hysterical laughter, happiness came out as anger, and so on.

Anger was easy though. It was an instinctive default. 

Eskel had just spent seven months with his emotional state in stasis and had yet to transition back to himself; he snarled at Geralt with gritted teeth as he panted his way through the turmoil in his head. Slowly though, his face fell into Geralt’s shoulder as his own shook. Jaskier approached carefully and nestled himself against that broad back as it quivered, and slid a hand under his shirt to place a warm palm on his hip. He knew Eskel was centred again when one arm stretched out to pull Jaskier more fully into the embrace. As the bard looked up for those familiar, warm eyes he _saw_ \- the damp lines down his face, the diamond-esque glisten to oculars of gold before they hid themselves against Geralt’s shoulder again - and Jaskier found the answer to a question he had always wondered.

_Witchers could cry._


	19. Leather and Silver (E)

“Do we put it in storage?” Eskel gazed down at their armour set out on the workbench behind the house. When the rain cleared, they had performed their usual ritual of decontaminating and polishing their kit; armour, weapons, clothing and other assorted tools. A year’s worth of filth currently drained away into the gutter and the two Witchers stood shoulder-to-shoulder as they inspected their work. 

“Not sure. We might need it,” Geralt picked up a wrist guard and turned it over in his hands. It was odd to think that, in their soon-to-be new line of work, an apron and bare feet were a more likely dress code than leather and silver. He had worn some type of armour for his entire life. It was his normal. Their normal. As his thoughts began to wander, Jaskier’s beautiful tenor drifted from an open window, and Geralt tilted his head to listen.

Eskel looked up, and a slow smirk unfurled its way across his lips. “I have an idea.”

“Hmm?”

“Ever noticed how his eyes get all big when we’re fully kitted out? Sometimes I think he even gets a bit hard,” he slid his silver sword back into its sheath once he had checked the film of oil along its surface. “Scratch that; _very_ hard. The sex was great in between those sittings for the painting. It’s definitely a fetish of his.”

“Only ever when it’s clean and polished. He just liked ripping it off and drowning me in a bath when we were travelling. Dirt, week-old sweat and entrails not really his thing.”

“Oh, I bet he fucking did,” Eskel smirked, dropped a hand and helped himself to a handful of Geralt’s backside as he considered his plan. “Hmm. Yeah… I like this idea. We need to see how far it goes. Put it all back on, swords as well, follow my lead.” 

They dried off the remaining moisture and strapped everything back into place; gambeson, chainmail and guards, before checking each other over for any remaining unpleasantness that they had missed during their clean. Footfalls were silent as they entered the house, the whisper of metal and leather over fabric not audible to human ears as they stalked upstairs and along the hallway to the study. Eskel only disappeared briefly into their bedroom in search of Jaskier’s chamomile oil; the bard would thank him later. They slipped across the threshold like spectres behind Jaskier as he continued to strum away merrily on his lute.

Eskel inclined his head towards Geralt and leaned himself up against the bookshelf, arms folded. The White Wolf walked just into the bard’s peripheral and achieved his desired startle of surprise. In fact, it was so abrupt that Geralt had to stoop forward and catch Jaskier’s lute before it shattered on the floor;. “Oh, it’s just… just you two. Why are you sneaking around? I…” He focused first on Geralt as he placed the lute against the wall, then on Eskel, blue eyes flickering across their armoury as his tongue wet his lips. _Did they have any idea how good they looked? No, no he didn’t think they did._ “Is there… trouble, or a contract you’ve forgotten, or…?”

“We’ve come to collect on one,” Geralt _growled_ , the same tone he took when a contractor was being particularly difficult, and Jaskier swallowed when those amber eyes bore into _him_. “Long overdue.” 

“Quite a big debt, actually,” Eskel shifted from his vantage point and walked his way slowly around the other side, flanking their prey and removing his ability to keep both within his sight. Jaskier’s pupils were wide, engulfing all but the tiniest amount of his blue irises. “Not sure you have enough Crowns to cover it. Heard bards don’t get paid that well.”

“I’ll have you know that--!” Jaskier’s lips formed the shape for ‘ _oohh_ ’ as realisation dawned. Both Witchers could scent the arousal on him as he dropped his hands to grip the edges of the chair. He had to move them swiftly out of the way though, because Geralt sat himself on the edge of the writing desk, the scabbards of his swords grating across the surface, and placed two booted feet either side of his legs. 

“How do you intend to pay, bard?” Said bard sat back in his chair and ran his eyes over Geralt eagerly; every inch of gleaming silver and dark grey; the leather belts afixed across chainmail and padded gambeson; wolf-headed medallion balanced over it all like a crowning ornament on a beautiful cake. _A beautiful, feral Witcher cake that Jaskier wanted over this desk right fucking now._

He stood up between Geralt’s knees, and saw the moment his mate lost his act and composure; just as Jaskier’s breath fluttered over his lips, and his hips brushed the inside of his thighs. Geralt could play at being gruff and in charge in front of Jaskier all he wanted, but those big golden eyes full of desire as his alpha drew close gave him away completely. Geralt the Witcher was a different man to Geralt, Husband and Mate. He wanted to melt under Jaskier’s hands on that desk. And they both knew it. “Perhaps we could negotiate. I’m sure we can come to a fair price.” A hand rested on Geralt’s knee, tracing careful circles across the inside. _Bit closer and I’ll have him._

The chair clattered to the side and suddenly gloved fingers were snared in his hair and pulling him back against a broad, leather-clad chest. _Oh, fuck, Eskel._ Jaskier hissed as the tension built in his groin. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Upperhand thoroughly lost, Jaskier reached behind and gripped whatever he could, which just so happened to be thickly muscled thighs and the beginnings of that tight backside. While Jaskier could seduce and tease Eskel into wrecking him, he wasn’t so sure he could seduce him into submission without careful planning and execution. Eskel growled in warning, “None of that witchcraft, little lark. We know what you’re like.” 

“I suppose if I asked for mercy, I would be barking up the wrong tr-- _fuck_ ,” his knees threatened to give way as Eskel bit and sucked bruises down the side of his neck. He thought vaguely of the dinner engagement he had at the university that evening, but the faded image blew away like smoke in the wind when Geralt stepped up and into shared air. He cuffed Jaskier’s jaw in admonishment, before gripping his chin and pushing his thumb between parted lips. Jaskier could taste leather and oil, and saliva soaked through Geralt’s glove as his mouth watered around it; he pawed at Geralt’s chest when he pushed to the back of his throat, leather belts and metal buckles harsh under the softness of his skin, and his cock ached in the confines of his breeches. 

When Geralt withdrew, Jaskier whined, only for his omega to raise an eyebrow and start undoing the buttons down the front of his doublet. He could feel Eskel’s free hand undoing the laces at his groin - finally - even as the other gripped him in place, the roots of his hair pulling and his scalp prickled with the sensation. Eskel purred in his ear as he dipped under Jaskier’s waistband, “No underwear?”

“Why? Gives you better acce--, if you keep pulling that _hard_ , you’re going to take a handful _out_.” Jaskier hissed, eyes beginning to water, but cock more interested the rougher his Witchers were. Geralt grew irritated with the last few buttons and so just tore them off. Jaskier smirked as his lover’s lips parted in admiration - _no undershirt either, boys_ \- and moaned appreciatively when gloved fingers raked down his chest and abdomen, smoothing along the length of his cock in one firm stroke.

They pulled his clothes away and he shimmied as helpfully as he could within Eskel’s grip, still holding onto Geralt’s sword belt. “ _Fuck_ , let me pay you back with interest, _please_.” His body was flushed and hot with arousal, and when Eskel pulled him back the cold of metal clasps securing his swords in place practically seared into Jaskier’s skin. He had mused over this exact scenario so many times. His two Witchers, fully decked out in all their splendour and fucking him raw, but it had always been outweighed by his desire to feel all that hot skin and muscle under him. Didn’t seem like he had a choice this time. And it was bloody _glorious_.

Eskel growled and finally released his hair, shoving him forward so that he sprawled haphazardly between Geralt’s legs. His White Wolf caught him, only to bring him up for a rough kiss accentuated by those two broad palms cupping his jaw. Eskel stepped back, admiring the round ass presented to him as Jaskier was pulled over. “Thoughts, Geralt?”

Geralt lavished a long lick up the side of Jaskier’s face. “See anything that fulfills the contract?”

“Plenty.” 

“Mmm, me too.” Geralt was undoing the ties of his trousers and Jaskier was pretty certain he drooled as that beautiful cock was finally free from its confines; an insistent hand snagged in his hair as Geralt leaned back and gripped the far edge of the desk. Jaskier bent over to swallow him hungrily to the back of his throat, fingers biting into the harsh material of the slacks Geralt still wore. He nearly gagged on him when one of Eskel’s fingers smoothed down the cleft of his ass, the rough material of his glove catching on Jaskier’s entrance and sending sparks of pleasure through the small of his back. 

Another low moan when cold oil dripped onto his tail bone, and then that same rough rub of leather pushed it down and then inside. The line between pleasure and discomfort was a thin one, but Jaskier was happily somersaulting down it, his cock now painfully hard and neglected. The preparation was deliberately minimal, and when Eskel finally took what he wanted, Jaskier whimpered around Geralt and clawed the spread thighs beside his head. 

Eskel gripped Jaskier’s hips and eased him back until his groin was flush with the soft skin of his ass. Geralt was rapt, golden eyes flickering from where Jaskier’s mouth stretched around the girth of his cock, to Eskel’s, wet and hard, pressing inside his bard and forcing him to moan and whimper. Eskel could see that expression and smell Geralt’s excitement building; his omega was enjoying the sight of one alpha at the mercy of the other; one naked and vulnerable, the other armed and dangerous. Eskel slapped Jaskier's ass cheek and caused him to clench pleasantly around his shaft. “Set the fee, Geralt."

“Just like you do to me every spring.” He didn’t miss a beat, and met Eskel’s gaze with a fierce stare, his breathing devolving to pants through a combination of Jaskier’s busy mouth and the visual before him. It only upped pace further when Eskel began to plough into Jaskier with a ferocity that made him sob and beg wetly around Geralt’s cock, but not to stop - _for more_. Jaskier dropped a hand away from Geralt’s thigh to fist his own erection desperately, and the sight shoved Geralt over the edge. Jaw clenched, he pulled Jaskier’s head down and watched as his alpha choked and then came undone himself, spattering the polished wood of the desk drawers with strips of milky white.

It took a great deal of self control, but Eskel withdrew as Jaskier’s orgasm abated and took himself in hand for the final few pumps he needed to hit his peak, splashing his spend over Jaskier’s back. Eskel bit his lower lip as Geralt smoothed his hand through, smearing it more liberally over Jaskier’s skin, and then lapped it from the fingers of his glove. The message was clear and it set every instinct in the very base of Eskel’s psyche on fire. _In this moment, you own both of us._ Jaskier didn’t seem to mind, both hands planted on Geralt’s thighs for support as he panted between them. “Fuck, where did _that_ … come from?” 

“Thought we’d get one last use out of it all before we put it away for… well, for good.” Eskel tucked himself away once he was soft enough, but didn’t bother with the ties. He stared at Geralt as he sat back invitingly on both hands, legs still spread, cock still free of his trousers and semi-hard. _Mmm_.

“No, no… keep it all out, for love of all that is just in this world, keep it all out. I hate to debase the vestments of your proud profession to the levels of a sex toy, but… _fuck_. I thought staring at Geralt’s medallion while I made him cry my name was good, but… I am totally having you with your swords and armour on and everything. _Everything_ ,” he straightened up as he brandished a finger at Geralt, legs still slightly bowed. “And _you_.” He rounded on Eskel. “You didn’t even take your gloves off to prep me. _You_ , sir, owe me.” He prodded Eskel in the chest, who gave him a gentle kiss, before he hobbled by in search of a washcloth and stiff tumbler of whiskey. 

When he returned, somewhat cleaner, the writing desk was receiving a serious amount of abuse. Eskel had wrenched Geralt's trousers, gloves, boots and sword belts from him and pushed him onto his back, holding muscular thighs spread at his hips as he buried himself, hard and fast. Geralt's nails bit into the wood as he gripped it with one hand, and fisted himself in time with the driving pace Eskel set with the other, head thrown back in ecstasy. Jaskier sipped at his whiskey thoughtfully, and draped the cloth over his shoulder, observing with an appraising eye.

_He was going to miss that dinner appointment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus smut after the fluff, because it's 3am and I've been in lockdown all day.


	20. Gwyn Cerbin

The vines had been planted early in Saovine, a full month before autumn ended, and so they would be well into their growing season by the time their new owners arrived at Corvo Bianco. It took the persuasive power of Jaskier and Eskel combined to convince Geralt that their journey could wait. The excitement added a whole new level of manic energy to his heat, and he oscillated between pawing through the paperwork, packing - very, very haphazardly - and pouncing on whichever alpha happened to be closest when the fancy took him. In Eskel’s case one morning, quite literally, and they ended up tangled together at the bottom of the stairs, with a hole to patch in the wall and broken banister strut to replace. 

Jaskier was eternally - _eternally_ \- grateful for Eskel’s stamina, because after the fifth time in one day, he realised that Geralt’s appetite would have been unmanageable with just one of them. Taking stock one evening as Geralt dozed in the middle of the bed, Eskel cast him a sideways glance. “Sore?”

“ _Yes,”_ Jaskier groaned, draping an arm over his face. “He has never, _never_ been this… _virulent._ Either that, or I really _am_ getting old and he needs to trade me in for a newer version.”

“No, I am too. Not sure how many more rounds I’ve got left in me,” Eskel shifted the blanket over his lap, and shuffled lower until his head hit the pillow. ”We’re all packed and ready to go. Have you finished up with the university?”

“My last lecture was yesterday, and they’ve agreed to a high degree of flexibility as long I don’t fraternise with any of the institutions in Toussaint,” Jaskier stifled a yawn and rolled over to rest a hand on Geralt’s chest. “How long will it take?”

“Three days at a good pace,” Eskel lifted his arms and tucked them behind his head. “We’ll use Daisy to carry some of the lighter packs, and you can ride with Geralt on Roach; she’s used to carrying you two by all accounts. He’s also plotted every - and I mean _every_ \- tavern and inn that we’re going to come across, so apparently we won’t be sleeping in the open either.”

“You can always sleep in the stable with the horses, Eskel,” Geralt mumbled as he rolled over onto his side, shimmying his back up against Eskel’s warm bulk, and pulled Jaskier to his chest. “Now shut up, I’m trying to sleep.”

“Of course, Master Rivia, sorry to interrupt your beauty sle--,” Eskel was cut off by the elbow he received in the gut, and grumbled as he scooped an arm beneath Geralt’s pillow to cuddle in close again. “ _Asshole.”_

Jaskier could feel Geralt’s smirk against the top of his head.

***

Eskel’s estimate was about right. The trip through Temeria was uneventful and, by the grace of whatever deity was watching, the weather held. Whereas Jaskier spent much of his time travelling with Geralt talking and singing to himself, with Eskel along every hour was filled with free flowing conversation and music. By the third duet on the second day, Geralt was scowling. "Just half an hour… half an hour of peace, please." So they allowed Geralt to listen to his preferred melody of birdsong, rustling leaves and clopping hooves… for an hour at least.

When they cut through Sodden and arrived in their final stay of the trip at Riverdell, Jaskier watched as his two Witchers - for that is what they would always be in their hearts - gravitated towards a notice posted up by the tavern. Geralt plucked it from the wooden post and squinted at the untidy handwriting.

“Wraith?”

“Reads like one… scorch marks, only at noon.” Geralt passed it across for Eskel to inspect.

“Quite a high reward too.” 

Jaskier cleared his throat and they both turned at the same time to blink at him in confusion. “Sounds like a job for a Witcher, one that isn’t retired,” he was as gentle as he could be, and watched as they glanced at each other. _Jaskier was right._ They had fallen immediately into their age-old routine without even a second thought. A routine that they had now made the choice to put behind them. For good.

Slowly, Eskel pinned the sun-bleached paper back to the board. The two stood there staring at it in silence, fingers twitching at their sides, as if unable to pull themselves away. Jaskier tugged at their elbows, “Come on. Someone will need the coin from that contract, and you do not.” 

Geralt nodded and turned his back to head into the tavern. Eskel followed shortly after and Jaskier ran his fingers over that notice before he too ducked into the warm. Lambert, Aiden, Letho; any number of other, nameless WItchers still on the Path would find that notice and be able to eat for a few days after. Their sense of duty and obligation was assuaged by that thought, and they ate their hearty meal of stew and bread before retiring for an early night. One more hard day of riding ahead of them before they reached Corvo Bianco.

***

Sanseretour Valley was more beautiful than Jaskier remembered. He hadn’t been this far south in many years; Geralt favoured the northern kingdoms for the most part for his contracts. Blanketed in vines, trees and flowering blooms as far as the eye could see, he sat astride Roach and gazed down on his new kingdom with glee. The endless colour was mottled here and there by a manor house or windmill, and Jaskier picked out some of the well-known vintner’s for Eskel. “That’s Castel Ravello over there. Owned by Fabricio until he was arrested for treason… have no idea who owns it now. They age Erveluce in the cellars. Favourite of the nobles by a country mile.”

“And Geralt,” Eskel commented wryly, gazing down at the man in question and receiving a wide, knowing smirk. “I need to watch you, or you’re going to spend the rest of your days saturated in wine.”

“A man can dream,” Geralt led Roach on foot and proceeded down the slopes into the heart of the valley. Jaskier continued to point out different sites to Eskel, but fell silent when he saw the first sign for Corvo Bianco. The estate they approached was sprawling and Geralt drew Roach to a stop before a view that stole Jaskier’s breath away. The valley continued to slope away into the distance, fading into a backdrop of snow-capped mountains wreathed in low hanging clouds. The early spring sun glittered across the surface of a river winding its way lazily down the side of the mountain, and Jaskier just about managed to drag his eyes away to inspect the estate itself. Several buildings crowded in the courtyard at varying levels of repair; Geralt had told them that the winery had been ‘unmaintained’ since its previous owner had run up huge debts. There was work to do here, but the workers currently attending to their duties indicated that the renovations were well and truly underway.

“Hmm,” Geralt rubbed a hand across Jaskier’s knee as he walked by Roach to greet the two individuals currently approaching across the courtyard. A bald-headed man in traditional Nilfgaardian dress and a pair of dimmed spectacles across his face, and a rather ancient looking woman with a drawn face and wispy white hair holding onto his elbow. 

“Master Rivia,” the majordomo bowed with the low, cultured flourish so central to his kinsmen’s code of etiquette. “Welcome back. I trust your journey was a pleasant one.”

“Thank you, Barnabas, it was,” he turned back to his companions. “Jaskier, Eskel… my partners. This is Barnabas-Basil Foulty, he’s the majordomo here. The best in the business by all accounts and as integral to this estate as the vines in the ground. And this beautiful young thing,” Geralt smiled as he took the old woman’s hands in his, stooping so that she could place a kiss on his cheek, “is Lady Marlene de Trastamara.” 

“Oh my, you are such a devil,” she cooed at him. “Well, a little flattery will get you far, venison tonight then, is it? Very well. I will hop to it.” Marlene patted his shoulder as she departed, and Barnabas untucked the papers he had sequestered under his arm for the walk over. 

“Twelve barrels of Sangreal arrived for you during your absence. I stored them in the cellar. Another gift from the Duchess. There were another couple of barrels from Belgaard as thanks for settling that feud. Named as you requested - Taedha’baeth. I sampled it, very fine.” Geralt glanced then at Jaskier, and the bard could swear there was a flush to his cheeks. _Elder Speech._ Jaskier knew enough to know that ‘taedh’ meant bard; he had learned that pretty quickly having had it spat at him by more than a handful of elves, but the second part? _Hmm._ “You also had a… hmm, a peculiar gift left for you, it came with a card so I am certain there will be information left in there. Come, come… let us get you settled and I can walk you through the repairs.”

Three workmen came over to take their horses from them. Roach stamped her hoof in disgust, and required a little coaxing from Geralt to follow the unfortunate man that reached for her bridle. _He was getting bitten. He was getting bitten a lot._ The two Witchers unpacked and Jaskier followed Barnabas-Basil into the main house. The ceilings were high and timbered; the floors a deep, stained oak and the furnishings minimal, but well-maintained. Corvo Bianco lacked the personality of their home in Oxenfurt, but it would soon catch up with a little bit of love and care. 

Their belongings were stored for them in the master bedroom together, despite the option of separate quarters. Barnabas-Basil didn’t comment and appeared more interested in showing Geralt the work undertaken in his absence. Outbuildings were being repaired at a remarkable rate; the vines were healthy and the vats were ready for the crop when it was time; the olive trees planted by the previous owner were also beginning to revive and, he predicted, would bear fruits and thus oil for the first time in years for that season. 

When the sun disappeared behind the mountains to the west, they sat in the expansive dining room and the majordomo left them to their meal with another of his low bows. Eskel leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hand. Geralt leaned forward and placed his goblet of wine back down without taking a sip, “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes, I…” Eskel leaned forward and looked at Jaskier who looked just as bewildered. “I am struggling to believe it, Geralt. I… I can’t even see the edges of this estate. It’s… tell me. Tell me about it. The people. Start with Marlene… there was a scent on her.”

"Hmm,” Geralt leaned back, forgoing his food for the moment. “She was a wight. I broke the curse when I sat down to eat with her. She was the daughter of a baron many years ago and turned away the wrong beggar.” 

“And Barnabas-Basil?”

“The finest majordomo in his field.”

“Yes…” Jaskier cleared his throat now. “I know where I’ve heard his name now. His whole life he has served distinguished noble families - the… the Kniebihly family and Admiral Rompally. He’s not some amatuer, he’s… the best this valley has. Duchess Henrietta has bequeathed you with a truly amazing gift, Geralt.”

“He certainly knows every corner and secret of this place. And, to his credit, he didn’t bat an eye when I arrived.”

“No,” Jaskier continued. “If I remember his reputation correctly, he does not suffer an employer that removes from his personal dignity. He would have just walked away if he did not see your nobility. The wine is unique too… Sepremento. Truly magnificent.”

“You must have achieved a great many things here, Geralt. And as usual, you have no doubt understated the story in the notes you gave to Jaskier,” Eskel murmured, head tilted to the side as he studied his mate across the table. “I am at a loss for words.”

“Then don’t speak. Eat,” Geralt indicated Eskel’s full plate and the other Witcher smiled as he picked up his cutlery. It would sink in eventually; Geralt had taken weeks to fully comprehend what he had been gifted. Days of walking the estate, turning over every rock and vine, and the patience of Barnabas-Basil to really _understand_. Corvo Bianco was his and, by extension, also his family’s. Jaskier and Eskel. This was his gift to them.

“Ah! Yes!” Jaskier leaned forward and grabbed the bottle he had eyed the moment they sat down. “Tell me, Geralt. Taedha’baeth. Taedh is bard, correct?” There was that flush again. “Come on, out with it.”

“It means…” He looked away, knocked back a huge mouthful of wine, cleared his throat and shuffled his feet on the floor. “It means Bard’s Kiss. It’s… it’s your wine, Jaskier.”

"Bard’s Kiss,” Jaskier repeated, staring at Geralt with smouldering intensity. Eskel was smirking across the table, but obscuring it with a mouthful of venison. “So, let me be clear.” Jaskier folded his napkin carefully on the edge of the table after dabbing at the corners of his lips. “You, I don’t know, fought some monsters, negotiated your way through courtly politics despite your passionate hatred of it, mediated an argument and when they offered you your very own wine, a drink that I’m pretty certain has replaced the majority of the blood in your veins by this point in time,” he stood slowly and approached Geralt with measured steps; the Witcher shifted somewhat uncomfortably, “you came up with Bard’s Kiss, because… you…”

“I knew you would have enjoyed this contract more than any before. It… this is your world; the courts, the intrigue, the nobility, but you weren’t here. There’s even another bard. A huge fan of yours as it turns out and,” Geralt rubbed the back of his head, still bashful about expressing himself under Jaskier’s scrutiny after all these years. “I missed you.” 

Jaskier bit his forefinger and turned around to the wall for a brief flail, before hopping straight into Geralt’s lap for a kiss that threatened to suck the very soul through his mouth. Eskel stood, grabbed a bottle of wine and walked around the table to snag the bard by the back of his doublet. “As nice as this meal is, I think it’s time for dessert.” Lips swollen from Jaskier’s kiss, Geralt followed the two up the stairs to the master bedroom and didn’t bother to stifle the cries Jaskier worked from him that evening.

Later, as the crescent moon shone through a gap in the curtains, Jaskier spotted more Elder Speech carved into one of the ornate struts of the huge bed. “Gwyn Cerbin...”

Geralt rolled over, but didn’t open his eyes. “White raven,” he mumbled. “It’s the elvish name.”

“Of course,” Jaskier spooned up against Eskel’s warm back and quickly began to fall asleep. “A vineyard with an... elvish name carved in… Elder Speech. The only one in the whole… valley. Almost like... it was... destiny.” 


	21. A Wolf's Howl (E)

The peculiar gift that had perplexed Barnabas-Basil was a mutagenerator. Eskel identified it immediately and was infatuated from the outset. Jaskier was with the majordomo in the library going through some administrative tasks; he had a patience for paperwork that Geralt simply could not match without a sincere amount of effort. Eskel turned the relic over in his hands. “It captures the essences of dead beings killed by the wearer. It’s extremely powerful, and what it could do to some of our mutagens is… well,” he murmured, in awe. “It already has three stored, at least. Who sent you this?”

“Regis,” Geralt turned the card over in his hand. “An old friend. He’s a Higher Vampire. The fact that he has access to this doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Fuck… Geralt, you never cease to amaze me,” he placed the mutagenerator reverently on the writing desk. “Our experiences on the Path have been very, very different.”

“Don’t forget that you hid for a long time, because of…” He trailed off when he sensed, rather than saw, the shift in Eskel’s mood. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--.”

“No, it’s fine,” Eskel sighed, fingers brushing subconsciously across the scars on his face. “The past doesn’t matter. This… _this_ matters.” He tapped Geralt’s chest as he moved towards the door. “Come on. Let’s saddle the horses. I want to see the grounds again.” Geralt smiled and placed Regis’ card beneath his gift, before following his mate down the stairs and into the bright afternoon sun.

Spring transformed into summer with a flourish of colour and Jaskier watched as the two Witchers went through their own metamorphosis. Even over the winter at Oxenfurt they carried the shadows of their vocation behind their eyes, with the knowledge that in a few short months they would be back in the darkness, with the monsters biting at their heels and their loved ones a hundred miles away. Their summers were spent knee deep in blood and pain, and the warmth of the sun was a distant sensation that meant nothing more than the added discomfort of thirst.

But not _this_ one. 

This one they spent basking in the sun surrounded by grape vines and butterflies, with spring water and wine at their beck and call; riding their horses across acres of safe, open ground or pouring over plans and filling in purchase forms for their projects. In the evenings they collapsed into their bed, exhausted not because they had fought for their lives in return for a few meagre Crowns, but because they had toiled on their vineyard, or on one of the renovation projects since sunrise. They had produced something for themselves - for their family - without the need for weapons or blood shed. It was a happy, comfortable exhaustion that often led to a warm, sleepy pile of Witcher every night rather than sensual, summer love-making. Jaskier couldn’t complain. He had never felt more content. More _rejuvenated_ somehow.

Of course, a man _did_ have needs.

Those needs were at the forefront of Jaskier’s mind as they watched the sunset from the roof of the barn. It was one of Eskel’s favourite things to do, and so every few days Jaskier climbed onto Geralt’s back and they scaled the side of the building and sprawled out on the roof with several bottles of wine and Jaskier’s lute. 

Geralt was propped up on his elbow, showing Jaskier the sketches he had made for one of the barns while Eskel was collecting more wine; there were some structural improvements he wanted to make. “A strut here means we can add another floor. It should bear the weight of three more vats, and increase capacity by another twenty-five percent.” Jaskier caught sight of another drawing peeking out from under the architectural sketch and plucked at the corner swiftly before Geralt to stamp his palm down on it. “Jaskier, that’s--”

“Eskel,” he rolled over onto his back and admired the collection of small portraits scattered across the parchment. Lots of Eskel’s face, his eyes, his hands and his shoulders. They were all symbols of Eskel’s strength and his love; parts of him that Geralt often ran his fingers over in passing or latched onto when they made love. Jaskier drew his thumb across the nearest image of those big hands, and returned the page in exchange for another. This time it was his own grin that flashed from the paper; his own hands, his shoulders, his… backside. _Really Geralt_. 

When he had asked Geralt that autumn why he had never sketched during their travels together, he realised now it had been a stupid question. Artists were inspired by things they found beautiful, unique. _Things they loved_. They also needed peace and time to ply their trade. Geralt had loved nothing about the Path. It took everything and gave nothing back, but now… now he had time to observe what he loved long enough to render it in charcoal or lead, free from the spectre of the Path hanging over him. “I’m glad you’re doing this more. You need to show him at some point.” He allowed the drawing to be taken and hidden away between the building sketches as Eskel clambered back up onto the roof.

Several years of coaching had perfected Eskel’s voice into the full-bodied, powerful baritone it deserved to be, and after two bottles of wine he was happy to set it free across the roofs of the estate at Jaskier’s bidding. The bard sat up and grabbed his lute, strumming through several chords, before breaking into a song familiar enough for Eskel to recall the lyrics from memory. It seemed apt now they started the latest chapter of their story together.

> _"And from now on,  
>  these eyes will not be blinded by the lights.  
>  From now on,  
>  what's waited 'til tomorrow starts tonight.  
>  It starts tonight.  
>  And let this promise in me start,  
>  like an anthem in my heart.  
>  From now on, from now on – from now on!”_

Eskel held his final note with impressive gusto, scaling up an octave into the next verse. Even Jaskier’s eyebrows leapt up to his hairline. _By all that was divine, he wanted to fuck those vocal chords - wait, bad, **bad** bard. Concentrate. Just dropped a note._ He just smiled innocently at Eskel, who glanced back at him.

Geralt sat back on his elbows and listened to Eskel’s powerful vibrato echo across the valley, standing on the edge of the roof with his arms thrown wide as he sang into the velvet night sky. When a distant pack of wolves howled a response Geralt laughed at the perplexed expression on his lover’s face. “Fans, Eskel.”

“One wolf howling at another,” Jaskier stilled the strings with his palm and listened to the canine serenade fade into the night, trying to calm his heart as it fluttered manically in his chest.

“Not sure whether that’s a compliment.” Eskel flopped down between them, bottle pressed to his lips for a long draw of wine. His face and neck were flushed, and he was pretty certain Barnabas put something with a truly ugly level of strength into this wine.

“Oh, it is. I wish you’d come and sing with me at court. A man, let alone a Witcher, with a voice like yours would melt every woman - and potentially a lot of men - into bliss,” Jaskier grinned, stole the bottle from his hand, and knocked back a mouthful. “We should get down before I end up having to carry you both.”

“Not sure what you’re worried about, I’m sober as a nun,” Eskel murmured as he proceeded to almost miss the foothold on his way down with a startled grunt. “Perhaps not a nun.”

“Mmmhm.” Jaskier slung his lute across his shoulder and climbed onto Geralt’s back to get a lift back to the ground.

Barely ten minutes later they were preparing for bed. Geralt had shed his clothes pretty much as soon as he had crossed over the threshold and sat propped up against a pillow with the top sheet over his lap; the nights were too warm for woollen blankets and down duvets, especially when you shared a bed with two man-shaped suns. Jaskier rinsed his mouth and ran a cloth over his face and hands before turning to the main bedroom where he found Eskel rolling his shoulder in discomfort.

“Still aching?”

“An irritant…” The Witcher grumbled and twisted to try and pour some of the medicinal oil he had been advised to treat it with, but the downside of a broad, muscular frame? Not everything was in reach; he turned several times on the spot and contorted at different angles until he twinged again in pain. “ _Fuck_.”

“Here, let me, sit on the end of the bed.” Jaskier plucked the bottle from his hands and Eskel didn’t argue, seating himself obediently and grumbling in contentment as Jaskier worked the oil first into the back, and then into the slope of muscle up to his neck. He melted gratefully under the attention, and the relief was more or less instantaneous. 

It was as Eskel tilted his head against Jaskier’s chest, eyes closed, that the bard happened to look up at Geralt and caught the intense stare currently levied in their direction. His pupils were blown wide and the thin sheet cast across his lap did precisely _nothing_ to hide his straining arousal. Geralt’s tongue darted out over his lips as he fixated on the hand that kneaded into Eskel’s shoulder, and then back up to Jaskier’s face; Eskel was melting under his bard’s hand in much the same way Geralt did, and it was driving Geralt quietly wild. 

Jaskier gazed down at the mop of black hair against his chest in consideration, before sliding his fingers through it to pull Eskel’s head back for a kiss. His mouth was accepted gratefully and the Witcher let slip an appreciative moan, fists gripping in the front of his doublet. With a little bit of coaxing, Eskel shimmied back on the bed and allowed Jaskier to settle over him, one knee planted between his thighs as an oiled hand drifted down his chest and under the loose ties of his trousers. Partial arousal soon teased to fullness, Jaskier smoothed his hand up the underside of Eskel’s cock until it lay thick and hot over his abdomen. Geralt was beginning to stroke himself now, lips parted and gaze attending every one of Jaskier’s movements.

Trousers nudged from his hips, Eskel kicked them the rest of the way and drew a knee up to plant his foot on the bed as Jaskier cupped and stroked his balls, still occupying his mouth with deep, drawn out kisses that stole his breath away. In a momentary reprieve, he tilted his head back to look up at Geralt; he caught those wide eyes, and the broad palm that stroked his full cock, and when he looked back to the cornflower blue eyes that admired him from above, his wine-soaked brain finally caught up. “Ahh.”

Jaskier propped himself up on his elbow, still smoothing his other hand over the soft skin of Eskel’s thighs. “We don’t have to, but I’d really, _really_ like to.” Two fingers rubbed then over Eskel’s entrance in firm, insistent circles; the gasp was quiet as an unfamiliar sensation prickled its way through Eskel’s hips. He tilted his head back and looked at Geralt again, recalling the way he had come undone in the study with Jaskier bent over him. Coupled with the fire burning in Jaskier's eyes, it was an easy decision to make.

Eskel lifted a hand to cup the bard’s jaw, smoothing his thumb over those full lips and then up his cheek flushed with wine and arousal. “Alright, but remember I have to ride a horse tomorrow.” He smirked, but Jaskier could see the mild apprehension in his eyes through the bravado. His raised knee flopped outwards and he shifted his hips, taking another kiss as he steeled himself. But Jaskier was wise to it. Instead, he went back to teasing his cock in long, languid strokes and beckoned Geralt as he rose up onto his knees. His omega crawled obediently down the bed and lavished attention on Eskel’s neck and chest. Jaskier slipped away briefly to their bedside cabinet and returned with an oil more fitting for their desired use.

When his hands returned to Eskel’s thighs, they were cool and slick and Eskel shivered. His cock throbbed over his stomach as Jaskier ran his tongue up the underside, before finally taking him fully into his mouth. Geralt broke from the kiss they shared and propped himself up to watch Jaskier work, his beautiful mouth stretched again, but those clever hands were busy elsewhere. One rested still against Eskel's upraised leg as the other teased his ass. Jaskier used his thumb to massage the tight ring of muscle at his entrance, allowing Eskel to get used to and then enjoy the sensation alongside that of the tongue lapping at his cock. When he had relaxed enough, Jaskier slipped his first finger in, moving immediately to stimulate sensitive nerve-endings. Eskel gasped and gripped Geralt's arms; he lifted his hips to meet the second digit as it pressed inside, and moaned into the kiss that Geralt craned to press against his lips.

Jaskier could feel Eskel's flank quivering under his palm as he found his mark inside him, adding a third finger to splay him open just a little more, fingertips calloused by lute strings rubbing firmly as his mouth continued to work the leaking cock twitching inside it. Usually a man of impeccable stamina, who could wring several from both his lovers before coming himself, Eskel's climax surprised everyone but Jaskier; he had sensed it in all those minute twitches and flexes of muscle. Jaskier worked him through it and Geralt couldn't tear his eyes away from Eskel's face as he unravelled with the intensity of it.

When the bard pulled his mouth away with an audible pop, he gently withdrew his fingers and tapped Eskel's hips. "Hands and knees. I want another of those from you." Eskel looked briefly hesitant, but the insistent tug of Geralt on his chin urged him onto his front and then up the bed for a kiss. Jaskier pulled his clothes off and left them in a pile at the foot of the bed, his own cock felt painfully hard and his mouth watered at the beautiful sight currently presented to him. He slid his hands over taut cheeks and kneaded them apart with his thumbs so that he could watch the head of his cock line up with Eskel's entrance; he wanted to see the moment he claimed this sweet ass as his. The sight and sensation of Eskel's body swallowing his head and then the rest of his shaft tore a guttural moan deep from the bard's chest, and he gripped those narrow hips close to him as they tried to buck away. Eskel couldn't go far and swore into Geralt's shoulder, clamping down on the slow burn of Jaskier inside him. " _Fuck_ …"

"Fuck is right, darling. Your ass is a gift," Jaskier bit his lower lip and ground himself deep, eliciting a noise from Eskel that sounded awfully like a whimper, and Geralt's mouth dropped open. Jaskier watched him with lidded eyes. "I believe, my love, this is where you set the pace."

Geralt tilted Eskel's chin up, gazing into golden eyes misted with tortured pleasure, and didn't look away as he spoke. "Slow and deep, I want to hear him beg like I do. Let him feel every inch of you." Eskel's expression twisted in fleeting shock, and then crumpled as Jaskier began to gyrate his hips. The Witcher gripped the sheets beside Geralt's legs, at first able to bite back the moans with iron control, until the pressure built too much and he realised those keening, delighted sounds muffled by Geralt's shoulder were coming from _him_. Eskel felt bereft when Geralt slipped away, watching as his omega prowled around the bed for a better view. Jaskier grinned in that dreamy, almost drunken way he did during sex and curved his body to allow Geralt to watch his cock slide into Eskel; slow, deep, and every inch… just as requested. Geralt placed a hand on Eskel's back, feeling taut muscles under his fingertips and then gripped a handful of his ass. Beautiful.

"Jaskier…" Eskel's voice was wrecked, and he hung his head as he panted. "I can't, please… you need to…" He stuttered as another of those deep thrusts glided across his prostate, and suddenly Geralt was back with him, sliding under his chest until he could feel the shaft of his cock brush across his own. Eskel's forehead was beaded in sweat as it rested on Geralt's shoulder, breath hot across his skin as he begged. "Please… faster… I _need you to fuck me faster…"_ Jaskier managed just about enough restraint to look at Geralt, who dipped his head in a single nod, before he proceeded to give in to Eskel's request. 

The wet slap of skin accentuated moans and cries of pleasure and Jaskier thrived on it. "Yes, come on, howl for me." To bring Eskel - this strong, infallible bulwark of an alpha - to whimpers and pleas for more, impaled on his cock, twisted a glorious pressure deep inside Jaskier's chest, and he had to grit his teeth to stay the instinct to bite down somewhere firm and sheened in sweat. When he sensed his lover drawing close, Geralt dropped a hand to rub his cock the length of Eskel's until he came with a strangled cry. His release was hot across Geralt's groin; the glide of his hand up his own shaft through Eskel's spend hastened Geralt's orgasm and he leaned back with a satisfied growl. 

Jaskier was pretty certain the spasm of Eskel's body elevated him to another plane of existence, and he pushed through a few more punishing thrusts before he knotted deep inside, hips flush with the exquisitely tight ass he had been eyeing for years. Eskel tried to pull away without thinking and the bard hissed when his body flinched and tightened around him. "No, love, relax. Just relax. It's alright…" He soothed a hand across Eskel's lower back until he loosened again, and Geralt occupied him with a tender kiss. 

When his breath returned, Eskel's voice rumbled, deep and thick. "That was…" he blinked, and then leaned his forehead against Geralt's chest when he shimmied a little higher, "something else." His omega was practically humming with pleasure beneath him, and he lifted his head to run his mouth over his throat with a quiet growl of acknowledgement. 

Jaskier left briefly once freed and returned to wash away the evidence of their passion, placing a kiss on the curve of Eskel's ass when he was finished. "Did I just get your first time?"

"Mmm. And after that performance, it won't be your last." Eskel crawled under the blanket and pulled Geralt to his side, leaving space on his other for Jaskier. The bard preened at the realisation and took a moment to shuffle the curtains over the window before climbing into bed. 

"Oh, Eskel, get the candles…"

The Witcher grunted, lifted a hand from where it was draped over Geralt and snapped his fingers. Every flame in the room extinguished at once and they settled into their sleepy Witcher pile, with an added side of bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually dedicate smut, but RavenSilverwolf, m'dear - as requested!
> 
> And also, do I even NEED to credit the song? Oh, of course I will. From Now On - Greatest Showman. I have manic amounts of energy, and learning the Greatest Showman tracks on guitar are absorbing some of it. Jaskier singing 'Never Enough' in front of a concert hall of nobility is also a scene on repeat in my head, so expect that at some point.


	22. Fireside Bard

The children were frightened of Eskel. 

As the estate began to take shape and the buildings were finished, the workmen brought their families with them to help with the harvest. A bit of extra coin never went amiss when preparing for the empty winter months. The children - the girls in particular - couldn’t leave Geralt alone. Jaskier stumbled upon the scene one late afternoon; the sun was disappearing behind the mountains and its warmth along with it. The youths had assembled in the courtyard while their parents finished the final jobs of the day, and gravitated towards their favourite, white-haired hero. The vision of Geralt and his troop of admirers made every paternal instinct in Jaskier scream with joy. 

They sat near the well, under a trellis arch wrapped in flowering grapevines. Geralt perched on a log, heels tucked close under his rear, with a sprawl of at least eight children around him. A girl, no older than six, stood on a higher log behind him and plaited his white hair while humming to herself. Others tugged and pulled at his big hands in request for another story.

“Another one?” Geralt moved his arms out of the way as a rather chubby two year old climbed into his lap, and took the doll she offered with a quiet thank you. In her mind, it was a fair exchange for a chance to play and tug at his medallion. It was shiny, polished and warm, and he only extracted it from her little hands when it began to gravitate towards her mouth.

“Yes! Tell us about a striga, suh.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure your mother would approve.”

“I ‘eard, I ‘eard…” A boy now, about seven and clearly the leader of the little band. “That you’ve changed one back, many moons ago. It were ol’ Foltest’s daughter, an’ it ripped yer throat out. Ain’ that right, suh? My da’ said you used t’ kill monsters fer kings and such.”

“Well, it appears you’ve already heard that one. There’s not a lot more I can add, really.” A chorus of gasps as Geralt unwittingly confirmed the lad’s tale, and said youth placed his hands on his hips and postured proudly to his friends.

“Was it the striga tha’ marked th’ other one, suh?”

“The other one?”

“Yeah, the other Witcher, ‘e’s mighty scary… we’re afeared of him. Looks like your striga got ‘im, suh, and he don’ really smile that much. Is he angry tha’ you didn’ kill it ‘afore it slashed him?”

Jaskier felt rather than saw his other partner appear at his shoulder, and turned immediately. The expression in Eskel’s eyes broke Jaskier’s heart; it was a quiet, forlorn pain that dimmed the passionate fire that usually blazed behind them, and Jaskier reached forward to cup his face. The Witcher waved him away. “It’s… fine, I’m used to it.”

“Eskel, they don’t mean anything by it. They’re children. The only reason they went to Geralt is because they saw him with Roach yesterday. He was feeding her sugar cubes and apples, and then allowed them to sit on her back. Told them stories about all the times she had saved his life.”

“He’s going to make that mare fat and then she won’t be good for anything.”

“Yes, but I think she has rather earned her retirement too,” Jaskier nudged Eskel with his elbow. “The point is… they saw him not as a monster wrapped in scars, with yellow eyes, but a gentle vineyard owner with his horse.”

“Don’t let him hear you call him gentle, he’ll sulk for weeks,” Eskel smirked, but as he watched Geralt pluck the two year old from his lap and deposit her on his shoulders, he realised that Geralt had always been gentle. He had been so all those years ago when it was Ciri on his shoulders in Brokilon forest instead; he had not fled from his responsibilities as Eskel had, but embraced the human part of his heart and raised a fierce young woman. Eskel heaved a sigh. If Geralt could shed the mantle - the tarnish - of being a monster, then so could he. He just had a bit of catching up to do. “What do you suggest?”

Jaskier hummed. “They always have a little campfire to roast some game at the end of the week. Well, tonight, actually,” he tore his eyes away as Geralt headed off with his troop to return them to their parents, one hand holding the leg of the infant on his shoulders, while the other was taken by his small hairdresser. “We’ll go. You’ll eat and cook with them. Speak with their parents. The children will see it and they won’t fear you anymore.”

“Hmm.” Eskel flicked his head in a nod and then walked out into the fading sunlight. “I’ll meet you there.”

***

The villagers met in one of the western fields. It hadn’t been planted this year, but left fallow for next season. They invited Barnabas-Basil, who politely declined in favour of a good book and a glass of wine claiming he was not versed in fireside conversation. There were seven families in total, each with at least three or four offspring apiece. The workmen greeted them with welcoming shakes of the hand and space was made on the logs and furs that had been hauled up from the village for seating.

Geralt’s miniature fans crowded around him, and he accepted their company without complaint, assisting one young boy in eating as he struggled with the heat of the food. Jaskier’s paternal instincts jabbed him in the bollocks again and, feeling inexplicably winded, he pulled his lute over his lap to distract himself from thoughts of what Geralt’s children would look like. White hair and eyes of fire. _No_. The mutations had done that to him, just like they had made sure he could never have a family of his own. _Set the mood, Jaskier…_ “So, a little sing song, any requests?” He chirped, forcing the smile back to his face before the either of the partners spotted its absence.

The two Witchers practically rolled their eyes out of their heads at the response, but tolerated the golden oldie as guests. ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ was now three decades old, and the words spilled from the mouths of the villagers as easily as their weekly prayers. When Jaskier stilled his strings with his palm, he bowed across the body of his lute and swept his hands to the side; his humble audience cheered and whooped.

“Now, I am merely the warm up act,” he hushed them with a raised hand and extracted the instrument from his lap. Eskel’s heart dropped through the pit of his stomach when it was held out to him. “Eskel here is the latest talent to grace the Continent. You will be his debut on the troubadour circuit.”

There was a long pause as the Witcher stared at Jaskier with a mixture of horror and anger, his fingers biting into his knees and jaw clenched. The silence dragged until one of the women piped up from nearby. “We’ve ‘eard you, master. At sunset sometimes. S’mighty beautiful. Please sing for us now. Be nice to ‘ear ya’ up close.”

Eskel looked taken aback, the chagrin replaced with something more unreadable, but slowly, he took the lute from Jaskier’s hand. The body rested across his lap and calloused fingers ran over the strings carefully. “What would you like to hear?”

“Oh, uh…” The woman that had spoken originally looked at her husband, and then flushed. “There’s one… ‘bout spring, an’ love, an’ a man’s soul. It’s… well, that one. ‘E ‘ums it t’ me sometimes, an’...” She grew redder still and Eskel quirked his eyebrows at the husband in question, who had the good grace to look a little bashful, before squeezing his wife’s hand. 

“Hmm,” he smiled, a small curl of his lips and Jaskier practically bounced in his seat. The first time one of your songs _broke_ was a glorious moment; someone else singing it. Remembering the words. _Giving them their own meaning._ And there was his stoic husband just plucking at the strings as if he were unmoved. There was no fooling Jaskier, or Geralt, who now sat up from where he had been wrestling with one of the older boys, feigning defeat and injury, to listen. It had been at least two years since he had heard Eskel sing this song - their song - and his chest felt light.

“ _Let the breath of spring warm your thoughts, with you and me and forget-me-knots_ ,” Eskel’s fingers strummed over the strings with muscle memory alone, but he still kept his eyes on the fretboard for the first few lines. “ _There’s a photograph of you inside, that could never leave this traveller’s eyes_.” When others around the fire joined him, amber eyes flickered up first to Jaskier and Geralt, as if to seek assurance, and then across to the villagers. The first husband rose to scoop his wife into his arms, she giggled and cupped his cheek, enamoured as much by his husky drone as by Eskel’s melodic baritone. The children, at first in awe of the music that flowed forth from this monster they feared so much, quickly followed. The boy that had been wrestling with Geralt was wrenched from the floor by a particularly forward lass, who proceeded to swing him around with a giggle. He gawked and spluttered in alarm, and Jaskier smirked. _Get used to it, boyo_

So the workers of Corvo Bianco danced the night away to the jaunty tunes Eskel coaxed from the instrument across his lap, accompanied by the warm timber of his voice. Jaskier didn’t take his lute back, and later sprawled out next to Geralt on one of the furs, both propped up on their elbows and pleasantly flushed with wine. “You planned this.” Geralt murmured, fond rather than accusatory.

“Yes, I did,” Jaskier cast his husband a lop-sided grin. “Masterful, if I do say so myself. There isn’t a monster on the Continent that could sound that beautiful.” He paused and coughed, clearing his throat as he covered his mouth with his wrist. _Damn fire…_ “Now, when they look at him, they will see their fireside bard, not… whatever they thought he was.” He couldn’t even bring himself to describe Eskel as a monster. There was nothing monstrous in the beautiful soul that now occasionally had to pause to laugh as that poor lad stumbled under the demands of his energetic new girlfriend. When she demanded a kiss on her cheek, the poor boy squawked in horror and fled out of the circle of firelight.

“Hmm,” Geralt leaned to take a mouthful of wine. “I love you, Jaskier.” He kept his head tilted to the side, seeking the gaze that fell on him the second the words exited his mouth; he knew it rendered Jaskier speechless, every time, without fail. Those three simple words held such gravitas when Geralt said them that all Jaskier could do was to stare, his mouth open and useless. Geralt studied the familiar lines of Jaskier’s face - the creases around his eyes and across his forehead from where he smiled so damn much; the soft texture of his lips, still as full and pink as when he had been twenty-six; the brightness of his eyes aglow in the summer evening - and then sighed in contentment. Jaskier had to bite down on the urge to tackle him to the floor and roll off into the darkness, and instead settled for the light brush of his fingers across the back of the hand that rested nearby. 

The night drew to a close, and the villagers headed home with a song in their hearts and high praise for their new masters.

The children were not frightened of Eskel anymore.


	23. Of Beasts...

When the harvest was collected and the growing season came to an end, it was time to head back to Oxenfurt for winter. After the blazing summer heat of Toussaint, even the Witchers, with their sun tanned skin, huddled by the fire wrapped in blankets for the first week as they acclimated back to the harsher northern temperatures. “I can finally feel my toes again…” Jaskier said one evening, curled up with Geralt and Eskel under a thick layer of blankets and duvets. He had left the house for a dinner and, by the time he returned all his extremities had bleached white, almost blue, with the cold.

“Was Redania always cold? Kaer Morhen in the middle of a blizzard has nothing on this.” Eskel grumbled, hissing quietly as Jaskier’s still _icy_ feet wrapped around his calves. Witchers could tolerate discomfort on a scale unknown to any normal man. Jaskier had watched Geralt sit, perfectly still, beneath an autumn downpour for four hours in wait for a wraith. Not a single muscle twitch even as rivulets of rainwater ran down his face and soaked into his cloak. Perhaps they had grown used to their comforts now. Jaskier grinned into Eskel’s back. _Good._

“You’re just soft.” Geralt mumbled, rolling over onto his side with an arm curled beneath his head, only to be hauled across the bed into Eskel’s arms with a feral growl.

“I’ll show you soft.” 

Despite the love he held in his heart for Oxenfurt, Jaskier couldn’t wait to return to the warmer temperatures of their southern estate. The cold made his chest tighter, and he discovered that singing for too long rendered him breathless. Two rather embarrassing coughing fits in front of an audience silenced him for most of the winter season. _It’s nothing. It’s fine. Just a… persistent irritation._ The accompanying lethargy and dizziness were a bit more bothersome, but he could weather it with a quick rest and some deep breathing. If he ignored it, it would go away. 

Both Witchers noticed, tried to insist he see a physician, but he waved them away with a toothy grin and pat on the cheek. “Just getting old. Colds last a bit longer at my age.” It didn’t stem their concern. 

Geralt began to hold him more from that point on. The quiet huffs of breath as he sniffed Jaskier’s skin and hair told the bard that there was something in his scent that kept holding Geralt’s attention, something new that he couldn’t place, and it wasn’t his new cologne or the plentiful amount of lotion he applied. The persistence of the attention made it difficult for Jaskier to honour his engagements with the university. “Geralt, I need to leave, I’m going to be late.” His Witcher wrapped around him in the kitchen, nuzzling down into his hair and breathing deeply. Jaskier pushed at his arms and squirmed.

“Mm, five more minutes. You can borrow Roach.”

“ _I can borrow Roach?_ Have you been drinking? Come on, my love. You know how much I enjoy my time in these classes. Go and give Eskel some attention. You’ve been rather… dismissive of him lately, and it’s hurting him. I-- I’m not feeling quite up to it at the moment,” he murmured. Finally released, Jaskier pulled his cloak around him and tried to ignore the furrowed brow and tight-lipped stare he received as he headed out into the street. “I will be back in a few hours.”

Geralt’s worry manifested in an unexplainable coldness towards Eskel that he really didn’t deserve. Jaskier tried to console him after the seventh time Geralt dismissed his romantic advances in favour of another menial chore, despite the jittery, feverish reflection in his eyes and the stutter of his hands as he tried to ignore his heat. When Geralt wasn’t fawning over Jaskier, wrapping him in blankets and trying to feed him, he shut himself away in the stables with Roach, talking with her quietly. The spring was unpleasant.

It would be better once they returned to Toussaint.

_Or not._

“Bandits, sir,” Barnabas-Basil sighed. “I’m afraid they didn’t leave any survivors either. It… the villagers have removed their dead and they will bury them properly.”

Geralt scowled at the writing desk as he leaned forward on his palms, head hung between his shoulders. _Some things never changed_. Eskel watched the rage roll its way across Geralt’s back, and Jaskier cast him a worried glance. When Geralt spoke again, his voice rumbled through the room like thunder. “How many dead?”

“Six, including…” Barnabas-Basil trailed off, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt as if adjusting his cuffs.

Geralt grew impatient. “Including _what_ , Foulty?”

“The driver had his son with him.” 

_Shit._

Eskel saw the moment _something_ snapped in Geralt before he even started moving. The anxiety bubbling quietly below the surface as he agonised over Jaskier suddenly boiled over into anger. 

The driver was one of the men that attended the fireside dinner the year before; his son the lucky - or unlucky, if you saw it from his point of view - lad that earned the infatuation of a young girl, and wrestled with Geralt while informing him that he was going to be a knight or a Witcher; he wasn’t sure yet, but he had heard that Witchers didn’t have to attend fancy dances, mind their manners or use cutlery at the dinner table, so that was his preferred choice. Geralt grew rather fond of him, and with his father’s permission began training in the evenings. Balance and swordwork only - “None o’ them Signs though please, master. Me wife’s ‘eart wouldn’ take it, y’see.” Geralt didn’t bother explaining the intricacies of that magic, and simply agreed. The boy had shown promise. _Had._

Geralt left the drawing room, the door ricocheting off the wood-paneled wall as he departed and headed swiftly upstairs to the miniature armoury they had sequestered away in one of the spare bedrooms. Both Jaskier and Eskel followed at a canter, but it was Eskel that burst into the room first, Jaskier somewhat breathless at his heels.

“What are you doing?” Eskel stood at Geralt’s shoulder as he strapped on his old wolf school armour, sliding his swords into place over his back, and adjusting the belts at his chest and waist.

“Pest control.” 

“Geralt, you can’t ride off into the night to hunt humans, even if they are bandits. What if you kill the wrong men? What if they’ve moved on?”

“An innocent bandit would be a first.” Geralt opened a small case by the window. Glass vials tinkled together as he ran his palm over them, before snatching the one he needed and slipping it into his pocket. Jaskier felt a bit sick when he caught sight of the colour and realised what his wolf had planned. _Thunderbolt._

Eskel saw it too and caught Geralt’s elbow in an iron grip. “If you take that to kill humans, it will be a massacre. A blood bath. You are not a judge, jury and executioner. It’s against the _code_ , Geralt. Even… even _now._ ”

Geralt snarled then, a feral twist of his lips that caused even Eskel to release him and take a step away. One gloved hand secured around the medallion at his chest and yanked it down hard. The chain snapped, leaving a red welt across the back of his neck, and he threw it to the floor with a metallic clatter. “Then take it.” 

As he walked away, Eskel stared at his back, his chest heaving with the shock. He looked down at the discarded medallion and the silver ring coiled in its chain. Many of their brothers had died trying to earn that badge of honour. You wore it for life. A symbol of your sacrifice, and that of those before you. It was not something you _discarded,_ and that wedding band and what it signified meant more to Geralt than life itself. _He wasn’t in his right mind._

In Geralt’s wake, Jaskier crouched down to pick the pendant from the floor. He looked at Eskel, with concern rather than hurt. “He’s not thinking straight. Those children are as close to what he can have now that Ciri is grown, you need to follow him. Stop him before he does something that he’ll regret.” The bard took Eskel’s hand and placed the medallion and silver band in his upturned palm. The Witcher closed his fingers around them, before heading to the rack that held his equipment with a resigned sigh.

Roach was fast, but she was getting on a bit. Roach the… twelfth? It was difficult to keep track. Eskel caught up with Geralt on the back of Ciri's gifted stallion with little effort, and they rode in silence until they came to the site of the ambush. The remains of the cart were piled at the side of the road, the path cleared for future traffic, but the attack was recent enough for the earth to be relatively untrampled, and an ample amount of evidence to remain. 

Eskel poured over the remains of the cart and inspected the rotting corpse of the horse tucked beneath it. Prickled with arrows, the carcass already showed signs of being gnawed on. Animal, not necrophage, for the moment. When they finished collecting their evidence, he stepped back and set the cart alight with a sweep of his hand.

“Hmm,” Geralt stooped to touch the earth to the north and then lifted his head to stare into the copse further down the road. “Ambush. They hid in wait. Knew it was coming and what time.”

“The driver was armed with a crossbow, but otherwise defenceless.”

“And we sent them out without an escort.”

“Geralt, it’s not - ,” he received a baleful glare, and heaved a sigh. As much as he hated indulging Geralt’s self-flagellation, he just nodded in agreement. “Yes.”

Geralt lifted himself back into Roach’s saddle and flicked his head at Eskel’s horse. “Come on. I doubt they’ll be far.”

He was right.

They entered an area of thick woodland, slowing the horses so that they could carefully pick their way through tree roots and tangled underbrush, and then stopped when the first sounds of camp life filtered through the trees. The two Witchers left their horses and slipped through the bushes and undergrowth with barely a whisper of sound. 

As they crouched down at the edges of the clearing, Geralt reached into his pocket, but Eskel gripped his elbow, “Please. Don’t. Two of us. More than enough,” his voice as gentle as it could be in a hoarse whisper. He felt Geralt’s arm tense under his and for a moment he was actually concerned Geralt would shove him away, but his hand reappeared without the vial. Relieved, Eskel turned back to the bandits. “We need proof.”

Geralt gave a single nod before moving away, still crouched low to the ground. The stack of barrels at the other side of the clearing looked familiar, and as the two approached, they found Corvo Bianco’s stamp across the side. “Enough?”

“Nearly. Just one more thing,” Eskel straightened up, obscured by the stack of barrels and cleared his throat. “Ahoy there, lads.” The general chatter of the camp stilled and Geralt glared at Eskel, incredulous.

“Make yerself known, stranger.” The hum of steel and iron as weapons were drawn.

Eskel raised his hands slowly above the line of the barrels and walked out. _This was stupid_. But he had to be sure. “Mighty fine haul you have here. Sepremento too, expensive stuff. Can’t get my hands on it myself. Where’d you get it? Might buy some off you.”

One of the bandits smirked at the others. “We, uh, _pro-cured_ it from a shipment that lef’ the day ‘afore.”

“Procured, eh? Sellers see your face by any chance? Only looking to purchase wine, you understand, not a thorn in the side.”

“None to worry about. All taken care of. Down to the last boy.”

Eskel didn’t even have a chance to react before Geralt rolled around the barrels and let loose a shattering Aard that sent one of the men careening into a nearby tree like a rag doll; the sickening crack of bone on contact indicated an instantaneous death. Geralt’s steel sword sang against the locket of his scabbard as he drew it, the runes along its blade flaring to life in his hand as he cut through the first bandit that lunged for him, slicing his head cleanly from his shoulders. Clinical and precise. 

The Witchers fought back-to-back, covering each other’s flank and dismissing clumsy swings with efficient parries and counters. There was little need for showmanship when your opponents were half-starved and poorly armed. Even without Thunderbolt blackening Geralt’s veins, this was still no more than butchery. They were silent in their work, the only noise the cries and gurgles of dying men as they crumpled to the floor clutching throats, chests or streaming stumps where their limbs used to be. As the clearing stilled, the life draining out of the final victim and soaking into the saturated soil, Geralt stood in the centre and gazed at the carnage, his expression vacant.

Justice wasn’t always bright lights, fanfare and heroism; sometimes it was blood-soaked earth, silence and one atrocity to punish another. Geralt was not naive, and it was not the brutality that bothered him after more than a hundred years of it. This hadn’t been entirely about the murder of the driver and his son. This was about feeling in control. Geralt could _do_ something about bandits. He could avenge murder and begin to right this wrong. He couldn’t do something about whatever was happening to Jaskier. Whatever the bard was _hiding_ , not telling them about, _shrugging off as if it were nothing_. 

Yet, the hollow feeling of impotence remained even as blood dripped from the edge of the sword in his hand. “Hmm.” Head tilted, crouched to the floor, he tore off a piece of linen from one of the bodies and dragged it down his blade.

“Thanks for not using Thunderbolt _._ I didn’t fancy pinning you down while it wore off. Complete overkill for a bandit camp.”

 _No answer._ Ahh, so that had pissed him off too then. To be called out on his righteous fury was not something that happened often, and Geralt felt like Eskel had denied him. _Deal with it later._ Eskel walked by Geralt and lifted his hand, fingers crooked for Igni, but Geralt took his wrist.

“Leave them for the wolves and the necrophages.”

“I suppose we’ll come back and clear those later too. And what about the wine?”

“Fuck the wine.” 

They returned home in tense silence.

***

From that point on, Geralt insisted that either he or Eskel escort every night time delivery. While the workmen were happy to have the extra protection, Jaskier was _not_. He sat awake every night until sunrise and his Witcher - whichever one happened to be on duty - returned, which meant he then ended up dropping off to sleep in a deckchair and _snoring_ most of the daylight away. The night times played havoc with his chest too, and he spent the majority of it coughing and spluttering in the library in an attempt to let his other lover sleep. 

What he didn’t realise was that both Witchers sat up and listened, wanting to intervene but knowing full well he’d wave them away. With a little bit of help from Barnabas-Basil, Jaskier managed to organise most of the deliveries for the daylight hours. Just a few more sleepless nights to weather until both his wolves were back where they belonged at night. Keeping him warm. 

“It’s the last one, Jaskier. And on a full moon. We’ll do it together,” Eskel adjusted a link in his armour and rolled his shoulder beneath his epaulette. “The villagers keep talking about hearing an unnatural howling every month.”

“Urgh, werewolf? Really?” Jaskier rolled his eyes, and rummaged through their alchemy set for the decoction they needed. “Just be careful. No risks. Remember, you don’t _have_ to go looking for it.” His throat crackled and he coughed into his palm. Chest felt tight. Definitely from the damn anxiety caused by this little outing. Eskel noticed the hesitant pause as Geralt adjusted the strap of his sword-belt, watching Jaskier’s back quiver with another cough.

“We’ll be back before you know it,” Geralt took the decoction from Jaskier’s hand with a grateful kiss to the lips. “Get an early night. You look tired.” 

“It’s you two. You’ll drive me into an early grave.” He glared at them as they departed, batting at Eskel when he leaned over to lick his nose. “Cheeky mutt.” 

Geralt hadn’t spoken to him properly since the bandit camp, and Eskel had a hunch it was a mixture of shame and uncertainty that kept him quiet. This was meant to be Geralt’s run, but Eskel insisted on accompanying him. Open sky and fresh breezes would allow Geralt the space he needed to talk. Eskel could only take so many surly rejections from his omega, let alone the added cold shoulder, before he would be forced to take him by the scruff of the neck and give him a good shake. 

The Witchers rode at the back to keep the wagon in their sights. The bubble of conversation ahead of them didn’t overwhelm the quiet hum of the summer evening, and ears remained alert for unwelcome visitors. Their own exchanges were silent. Eskel rode close to Geralt’s side and occasionally brushed a hand over his leg or nudged him with his shoulder. Once or twice he extended a foot and kicked Geralt’s boot from his stirrup to be extra annoying. When Geralt finally glanced across at him, Eskel dipped his chin, eyebrows raised and eyes soft. 

_Talk to me._

Geralt grunted and looked away. The shift in his posture, melting of tension from his shoulders, the light sighs of resignation. Eskel nearly had him. Another nudge of the leg, and then a flutter of fingers from behind Geralt’s knee back to the curve of his rear when he persisted in glaring forwards. 

_Don’t ignore me._

Finally, Geralt gave in and leaned across to place a palm on the back of Eskel’s saddle. Roach huffed in irritation but adjusted her stride to accommodate the extra weight on her right, and Geralt captured Eskel’s lips with his. The kiss was light. An apology. Eskel kept him there a moment, dropping his reins to take his chin and suck gently on his lower lip. He rubbed the side of his face against coarse stubble to scent him as he retreated. 

When Geralt settled into his saddle again, Eskel pulled the extra medallion from around his neck and held it out to his left. It hung there for a moment in the air between them, polished metal glinting as it caught the silvery light of the full moon ahead of them. Eskel kept his eyes straight ahead, arm still as his body adjusted to the gait of his horse. 

Accepting it back was an acknowledgement that he had dealt with something in the _wrong_ way, communicated his anxiety poorly and been petulant, so Geralt didn’t need added scrutiny. That didn’t stop the private smirk when the chain was snatched from his hand and returned to its rightful place around Geralt’s neck.

“Thought you were going to sulk forever.”

“I do not _sulk_ ,” Geralt rumbled, tucking the medallion and wedding band safely beneath his gambeson.

“You definitely do. It’s not up there in my list of top ten favourite Geralt-isms, I must admit.” 

“You have a list?”

“Yes. It changes from year to year. Your hair occupies the top spot quite a lot, swaps with your sass now and then...” 

“Sass.” Completely deadpan.

“Mmhm.”

Geralt opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a low, ethereal howl from the nearby copse. _Far, far too close._ It started almost as soon as his newly returned pendant began to hum against his skin. “Fuck.” He barely had his silver sword in hand before the beast came into view. A single rider burst from the treeline at full gallop, pursued by a huge lycanthrope on his tail. Eskel’s cob stuttered and pawed at the ground, and he dismounted swiftly at Geralt’s side to intercept the pursuit before it reached the cart. 

They arrived just as the cursed beast leapt forward and sunk its claws into the haunches of the fleeing horse. The animal screamed in agony and its rider fell from its back, cartwheeling across the ground. Interested in the carcass of the horse for now, the werewolf looked up only when the Witchers drew near, its maw dripping with the blood and entrails it had extracted so far. It lunged forward but Eskel was ready with Aard and sent it careening back and away from the wagon. With two of them, it didn’t stand a chance. 

Geralt unclipped the moon dust bomb from his belt and rolled it across the ground to explode in the creature’s face, muting its regenerative capabilities and its reflexes. Dazed and slowed, the werewolf could only lash out angrily. The Witchers weaved around its claws, striking intermittently when it left an opening. As the decoction lacing the edges of their swords seeped through its skin, the beast collapsed with a pained sigh and Eskel drove his blade through the back of its head. A fight that could have taken the best part of twenty furious, lethal minutes boiled down to a systematic five. “Well, this is…”

“Odd.” Geralt finished for him, staring at the felled beast. At this point, a Witcher usually took a trophy to collect payment. There was no contract. No payment to be had. “Perhaps we should take the head to show the villagers that it’s dead.”

“Yes - yes, that… might work. Go see the rider.” Eskel pulled his blade from the wolf’s skull with a fleshy crack, and then knelt down with his hunting knife to cut through its throat.

Geralt approached the groaning heap in the plush patch of grass and shrubbery he had landed in. From the quality of his riding boots and cloak, he could only be nobility. A pair of green eyes flickered open and gazed up at him, widening in alarm when they registered. “Oh my… you’re - you’re Geralt of Rivia, the--.” His southern accent was clipped, educated into speaking the Common tongue.

“If you say the Butcher of Blaviken, I will finish what the werewolf started.” 

“I - I wasn’t? I was going to say the owner of Corvo Bianco,” he took the hand that was offered to him. “You’ve… saved me. I heard what you did for the Duchess, _of course_ , but I am truly honoured, I--.”

“What the fuck are you doing out on the full moon when there are reports of a werewolf in the area?”

As Geralt proceeded to school their intrepid young nobleman, Eskel felt a pang of overwhelming adoration. “ _I love you_ \--r way with people.” _Well saved._ He twisted and yanked the head of the werewolf from its spine, grumbling irritably as the blood spattered over his boots and trousers. 

The nobleman swallowed. Now that Geralt studied him closely, he could be no more than his early twenties. He exhibited the same soft youth that Jaskier had when he first started walking the Path at Geralt’s side. A youth that still existed in the pretty blue eyes currently gazing forlornly out the bedroom window, waiting for them to return home. Geralt faltered briefly, his gaze averted as his heart twisted itself in knots. The lad didn’t notice, “My father thinks I am… too undeserving to inherit his estate,” he looked away. “I thought hunting the beast would go some way into proving him wrong…”

“By yourself?”

“N-no, three of my father’s men. They…” He sniffed, cleared his throat and shuffled his boot through the earth. “There was nothing left.” Geralt’s jaw clenched, but he said no more, and walked with Eskel towards the horses. The nobleman called out after them, “Wait! I… I feel like I need to repay you in some way. My father is hosting a ball… his name is Borhis di Salvaress. I am certain you have heard of him. I… I am his son Adrien. I…”

Eskel paused. “Geralt.”

“ _No…”_

“ _Geralt,_ ” Eskel nudged at the walking embodiment of surliness at his side with his elbow, mainly because one hand was occupied with the wolf head, and the other bloodied and clutching his hunting knife until he could rinse it off. “Jaskier would _love_ it. He was only complaining the other day that he hadn’t been to a good ball in, oh… a month?” 

A deep, long-suffering sigh and Geralt turned back to Adrien. “When is it?”

“Four night’s time. On Beltane.”

“ _Fuck._ ” Geralt ran his hand down his face and rounded on Eskel. “You let me forget.”

“I didn’t let you do anything. You’ve been sulking.”

“I do not _fucking--_.” He cut off, growled and waved his hand in dismissal, stomping away towards Roach.

As Eskel departed, Adrien called after him. “It is a masquerade ball. Please do come prepared, and oh, Master Witcher, I don’t suppose you know how I could get home - ?”

“Lovely evening for a stroll. Enjoy.”


	24. Dances with Wolves (E)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling sad/low? Come back later. This is not the chapter for you right now. I won't take it personally.

The ball sent Jaskier into a whirlwind of excitement. He finally gave in and allowed Barnabas to call a physician; one could not dance or sing with a bad chest. Jaskier insisted on seeing the man in private and sent his keen-eared Witchers out into the sun for an hour. He then spent at least three further hours picking out the clothes they would wear. They sat together in the drawing room after their meal on the final evening before Beltane, Eskel on the rug next to the fire, Geralt idly running his fingers through his hair from the couch above and Jaskier curled in an armchair. 

“And of course,” Jaskier stretched his legs out in front of him. The remedy the physician provided had loosened his chest, and he felt more comfortable than he had in… months. The improvement in Jaskier’s condition lightened Geralt’s mood, and the sight of his two Witchers together again made the bard warm inside. “You will both dance with me on our anniversary.”

“Hmm. Do you think that’s wise?” Geralt stroked his fingers down the scars on Eskel’s face, finger pads focusing on the sensitive skin at their edges and earning him a pleased rumble. Other than the kiss on horseback, this was the first bit of affection Geralt had given him in months and, _fuck,_ it felt good.

“Pssh, you said it was a masquerade ball? It will be impossible to tell,” Jaskier grinned, and then looked slowly between the two sullen faces. "You _can_ dance… yes?" He had _seen_ Geralt dance. He was certain of it, or had he? As Jaskier wracked his brains in search of the memory, the two stood up.

“Of course. Wedding two years ago, in Toussaint, used these moves." Geralt began to wriggle his hips and jive his arms, feet shuffling in a rough square on the floor. He had been blind drunk at the time, and on a contract, but it didn't matter.

Jaskier covered his eyes with his hands, peeking through split fingers when he could bear to look again. "Ciri would be mortified. That is…" _A dad-dance if ever I saw one._ Only marginally better because Geralt _could_ shimmy his hips and shoulders without too much awkwardness. He looked to Eskel next. "And you?"

"Druids from Skellige taught me." Eskel stepped up behind Geralt, who instantly stilled as his arm encircled him and pulled their bodies flush, head tucked on his shoulder for the briefest of kisses. Eskel’s hips swayed and rubbed against Geralt’s backside in a wanton grind as he rocked his shoulders from side to side, lower lip between his teeth. Geralt was delighted and gyrated in return, arms lifted to beat at the air, shuffling back in encouragement - he knew this one too - but Jaskier threw his head back against the chair in pure despair. 

"Know any dances that won't scandalise the nobility of Toussaint and send half to an early grave? I can see the headlines now. Witchers mate on the dance floor. Huge phallus causes mass hysteria and a handful of heart attacks."

Sensing Jaskier's concern behind the joke, Geralt stilled Eskel's exuberance with a hand on his shoulder. "You mean like the waltz they do at every banquet we have ever attended for the last thirty years."

"Yes," the bard sat up, eyes alight. "Do you… can you…?" He had never seen Geralt dance. Certain of it now. Prowl, fight, _yes_ , and it certainly had similarities where a Witcher was concerned. Geralt had never actually taken someone’s hand - man or woman - and escorted them around the dance floor though. Not in front of others. Not… well, apparently not until that wedding at Toussaint. Even on his own, jiving away like someone’s lecherous uncle, would have been truly _adorable._ Jaskier was sad to have missed it.

Geralt grunted dismissively. "I've watched it a thousand times. Not that difficult." He took Eskel by the arms and moved him into the space in front of the drawing room doors. "Do exactly what I do. Step for step. Just like Vesemir's drills. Three beat rhythm, rinse, repeat."

Jaskier turned in his seat as the two bowed opposite. Hands tucked behind their backs, they began to elegantly step circles around each other as if at the centre of Foltest’s court all those years ago. It was a smooth, graceful glide; bare feet silent across the varnished floorboards. Eskel was a beat behind at first, but quickly picked up the rhythm, his gaze flickering up from Geralt's feet to the eyes that watched him intently. 

Two moved as one, with poise and coordination. Narrow hips swaying as broad backs passed, muscled shoulders dipping and turning as they circled. The first part of the dance was meant to represent the chaste first meeting - young lovers enthralled by each other but nervous - and these two huge, burly predators were acting it out to perfection. Jaskier became entranced. Two wolves in a courting dance, so intent on each other that the rest of the world faded into nothingness. When Geralt stepped forward to wrap an arm around Eskel's front, hand settling on the outside of his waist, he stretched the other in the air and they turned.

Eskel felt breathless. Not from his own light exertion, but from the sight of Geralt moving like liquid shadow across the floor; the scent and warmth of him pressed up close; the flutter of his breath across his lips and the intensity of the _want_ that suddenly flared behind amber irises. Without warning, he crushed their mouths together and Geralt pushed up against him eagerly, calloused fingertips pawing feverishly at the front of his shirt. Eskel laced his neck and jaw with kisses and nips, tongue lapping at each bruise and mark he left. _Claiming again._ His insides dissolved with the taste of his mate after so long and he growled into Geralt's shoulder with feral need. 

They separated for a handful of agonising seconds to yank their clothes off, before their bodies pushed back together. No buckles, belts, just coarse linen and wool to discard in a pile on the floor. Geralt cupped Eskel's face as he took another kiss - hungry, wanting - and Eskel dragged his fingers down the small of Geralt's back, clenching his ass and pushing him back towards the couch. 

_Months_ of rejection. Being growled at in warning for so much as an arm around the waist in bed. Denied the kisses in passing he had grown so used to. He had so wanted to just _take_. Give in to the instincts that bristled at the idea that Geralt should have the _audacity_ to reject him, but he couldn’t. Not ever. The thought was repugnant. But Eskel’s body now ached for it. Every muscle quivered in anticipation, and he could feel a reflection of that yearning under the heated skin of the man in his arms. 

He shoved Geralt down onto his back and dropped between spread thighs, his mouth working down Geralt's throat and then back to his jaw; he wanted to devour every inch of the skin before him. The blunt head of Eskel’s cock pushed up the cleft of his ass, torturous as it worked its way towards his entrance, and Geralt wrapped his legs at Eskel's hips to pull with an insistent growl. Jaskier was watching his lovers with parted lips, lazily palming the growing bulge in the front of his breeches. If every courtly waltz ended like this, he mused, then the Continent would be a far happier - and more interesting - place. 

Eskel sank into that glorious heat with a low rumble of pleasure. _His omega. His love._ Geralt gripped a handful of Eskel’s hair, biting down into his own forearm to stifle the moans and gasps forced from him by every deep thrust. _Did Barnabas go out for the evening?_ The flickering image of the majordomo shattered as Eskel drove into him again and Geralt let loose his first stuttering cry. 

_Ownership._ Those hard, forceful pistons were reminding Geralt of just who he had been pushing away, without reason or explanation. Eskel pried the hand out of his hair to pin it to the sofa above his head. The demand was unspoken. _Look at me. Feel me._ Lidded eyes kept track of Geralt’s as he stole each breathy pant from his chest, but there was only so long he could keep his mouth away, and Eskel leaned to bite bruises into Geralt’s throat again. _Mine._

He felt Geralt's climax spill between them, his cock twitching and throbbing against Eskel's stomach as he ground his hips into his ass. Geralt's eyes rolled back and he arched into it. “Eskel, _fuck…”_

Eskel glanced across to Jaskier with one of his best come-hither eyebrow wriggles, still deep inside Geralt, but the bard only chuckled and circled a hand in the air. "I'm rather enjoying the show." 

"Hmm. Perhaps a better view then?" Voice thick with his building climax, Eskel withdrew and dropped back onto the couch. "Sit across my lap. Face your alpha." Instructions blunt as Geralt blinked through his daze, eyes following Eskel's gesture to Jaskier, sprawled in his chair with his head propped up on his knuckles. The bard fluttered his fingers in a little wave and then raised both eyebrows expectantly.

With a grunt of effort, Geralt slid across Eskel's lap, limbs heavy and uncooperative. His mate leaned back and groaned in satisfaction when Geralt lined up and pressed down again. "Lean back." He tugged at Geralt's waist, and then dropped his arms to scoop under his thighs to lift him.

The new position, the slow, languid rock of Eskel’s hips as he thrust up into him, stretched Geralt in different ways, and he tilted his head back with a gasped moan. One hand gripped a set of Eskel’s fingers clenched around his leg, while the other lifted to his cock, rapidly hardening in response to the pressure inside him. His eyes only flickered open again when the scent of Jaskier grew stronger, and he looked down the slope of his chest as the bard knelt between their legs.

The heady musk of their joining made Jaskier’s blood run hot, and he leaned forward to take Geralt in his mouth. Eskel’s movements were measured enough to prevent too much jostling, and he palmed his own cock with rapid, desperate strokes as he sucked and nursed at Geralt’s head. 

But it was the image of Eskel driving up into Geralt that had drawn him over, and _that_ was what he wanted in his mouth. Jaskier sank onto his knees, tongue working around Geralt’s balls and then lowered still until he lapped up the underside of Eskel’s shaft to where it stretched Geralt’s entrance. He moaned against their skin, tongue and lips working the point two bodies joined. Eskel grunted in surprise, the sensation and realisation of just where Jaskier’s mouth was booted him from the fine line he had been treading in hopes of working another release from Geralt. “ _Fuck, Jaskier_.” The bard pulled his head back just as Eskel allowed Geralt to drop, large hands moving to push down on Geralt’s hips as he filled him. The orgasm was intense and Eskel threw his head back with a low growl. 

Eskel’s hot breath panted across his back, and Geralt smirked as Jaskier rose to his feet. Elegant hands circled his cock and stripped it bare in time with the strokes he administered to his own shaft, and when he came he leaned forward so that it pooled in Geralt’s groin and shoved his lover off the precipice as it dripped down his skin. Eskel bit his lower lip as Geralt clenched around his knot, spilling over Jaskier’s fingers in response. When the bard pushed them past Geralt’s lips, the Witcher lapped his own spend from them and then flopped back with a feral grin on his face.

“You’re a lecherous old fuck, Jaskier,” Eskel murmured into Geralt’s skin, followed by an appreciative sigh. “Never change.”

“Mmm.” The bard straightened his doublet, tucked himself away and patted Geralt’s knee. “Don’t stay up too late.” And off he sauntered to bed.

His knot relaxed and Eskel was able to help Geralt onto the sofa next to him, stroking the legs that remained sprawled over his lap. They sat in blissed silence for some time, before Eskel finally spoke, addressing the final hurdle. “Are you going to talk to me about it?”

“I’m not sure what words to use.”

“The first ones that come into your head would be a start.”

“Hmm,” his brow creased, lower lip rolling between his teeth as Eskel pushed a thumb down the arch of one of his feet, and then over his calf muscle. A deep sigh, “I’m sorry for being a prick.”

“Mmhm.”

“You didn’t… I’ve been… I’m not sure how…” Three sentences all started, and none finished, Geralt scowled, lip twitching as he looked at the floor.

Eskel could sense the tailspin. “Slow down. Take a moment,” he stroked one of the scars on the outside of Geralt’s thigh. It was easier to answer a question than to assemble the coherence yourself. “Why did you reject me? Did I do something wrong?”

Geralt flinched and tilted his head away, but dragged his eyes back only a moment later. He had displayed enough cowardice in the last few months; he needed to own his inadequacy. “No,” he shuffled to sit up, shoulder-to-shoulder, and gathered one of Eskel’s hands. “I was blaming both of us for… whatever it is. We can’t do anything. He won’t even admit he’s ill. I know it’s fucking stupid, and… _wrong_ , but he even smells different, and I can’t--.”

“He’s frightened, Geralt,” Eskel murmured. “You can smell his sickness on him, but also his fear. You couldn’t recognise it because--.”

“Jaskier has never smelled of fear.”

Even when they were getting beaten on by elves, chased by monsters, imprisoned by nobles or trapped by a storm, Jaskier never smelled of fear. Excitement, mirth - all the damn time - sadness unfortunately, a tad nervous here and there perhaps. Jaskier saw life as one grand adventure; it’s unpredictability was all part of the fun. Why be afraid? 

“Mmm,” Eskel stretched his legs with a gratified sigh. “I love him too, remember. As much as I love you. Stop being a fucking martyr. We can help him through it together, even if…” He felt Geralt’s fingers tighten. “...even if it’s to the end of his story, alright?”

The silence drew on, but the acknowledgement was there. And then, “Don’t tell him I forgot our anniversary.” Geralt glared at him intently, although it would have been far more menacing without the lovebites on his throat and his tousled white hair. He just looked _fucking delicious,_ and Eskel tweaked his chin.

“What’s in it for me?” 

A dark scowl. “I won’t beat your ass.”

“Hmm. Like to see you try. Might tell him now,” he saw that glimmer of consternation, and huffed. “Of course I won’t tell him. You’ve had a lot going on in that thick head of yours.” 

Geralt was raw enough without the addition of a forlorn Jaskier with his quivering lip and doey-blue eyes swimming with hurt tears. Eskel reached across to stroke the back of his fingers down Geralt’s cheek, and sighed happily when Geralt crawled onto his lap and kissed him in return. It was slow and tender; a stark contrast to the fierce, consuming fuck they had just enjoyed, but Eskel almost didn’t want to let him go. _Just a moment longer._

“We should go to bed, or he might think he’s missing out.” 

They unfurled from the couch and Eskel stooped to gather their clothes from the floor; Barnabas-Basil had standards and this was as much his home as theirs, after all. Eskel then took Geralt’s hand and pulled him upstairs. They paused only long enough to clean before crawling under the thin blankets and curling around Jaskier, big hands rubbing his back and his chest. “Oh my--, it’s too bloody hot for all that… oh, actually. Yes… yes that feels nice…”

***

The di Salveress estate wasn’t far. Barnabas organised for several barrels of Sepremento to be delivered as a gift so they could take the horses. For once, Jaskier had to allow them to wear their preferred colour; _black._ Southern fashion was all about the chic and the refined, and so even Jaskier had to mute his flamboyant outfit to a smart doublet and breeches, but it was all about the _masks_.

As he tied his own to his head, he grinned into the mirror, fluffing his grey speckled - alright, it was probably beginning to be more _grey_ than brunette by this point, but he could ignore that - hair with the lotion on his palms. The mask was a dazzling gold, with a guard over his nose, apart from a strip of black around his eyes that curved down his cheeks. Two wispy feathers brushed back from his temples to give the illusion of a bird’s head tufts, and when Geralt stepped up behind him, he hummed softly in amusement. “A lark.” His smile returned in a cheeky flash of teeth in the mirror. 

“A lark and his two wolves,” he had chosen only a half-mask for both of his Witchers, carefully cut across their cheeks like the flare of a wolf’s fur, with two sharp ears at the top. “And I can’t convince you to put a little bit of makeup around your eyes for effect… oh, no. Alright.” The glare he received made him purse his lips, and he tied the ribbon at the back of Geralt’s head for him without further comment. 

“Come on, Eskel’s holding the horses for us. Have you taken your medicine?”

Jaskier cleared his throat and walked by. He didn’t want to be drowsy and beleaguered by thoughts of sleep and _sitting down for a rest_ this evening, so _no…_ “Yes, I have. Let’s go. This is going to be amazing.”

The sprawling di Salveress estate was decked out for the occasion, with summer blooms occupying every sunny corner, glittering silken banners and crystal chandeliers hanging from its tall, vaulted ceilings. Adrien greeted them the moment they stepped into the hall, announced by the herald. Eskel did a double-take when Geralt was introduced as _Sir_ Geralt of Rivia. “Really?”

“Don’t. Say. A word.”

“Why of course, _sire._ ” Eskel twirled his hand and bowed.

“I said--.”

“Ahh, gentlemen,” Count Borhis di Salveress was an impeccably dressed man entering his autumn years. Well-groomed grey hair slicked back over his head, his mask a deep emerald green to complement the intense pair of eyes that studied them now. “Adrien informs me that I owe you thanks. Regrettably, my heir apparent is an absolute fool, but I am eternally grateful that you saw fit to intervene.”

Geralt saw the boy look at his feet, his face drawn. “Adrien fought with valour, your excellency. Any lesser man would have perished.” He glanced over his shoulder at Eskel, who didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh yes, it was basically already dead. We offered the trophy, but he insisted the villagers needed to see the beast was dead.”

Adrien stared at them with his mouth open. It clicked shut when his father turned to him with a thoughtful hum. “It seems you were humble in your account of the event, Adrien,” he looked back to the Witchers, casting a nod to Jaskier. “Please enjoy yourselves this evening. Glòir aen Ker'zaer!”

Geralt and Eskel bowed their heads respectfully as the Count walked by, and Adrien waited until his father was out of earshot. “Sirs, I cannot… you know not the service you have done. I am in your debt. Eternally.” The lad bowed low, as one would to higher nobility, before departing into the arms of a lovely young lady in an azure gown. 

Jaskier smiled dreamily at his husbands. “That was very kind.”

Geralt grunted. “Perhaps if someone had done the same for you, you would have had a better life than the one I have given you, Jaskier.” 

The bard’s brow furrowed, but Geralt was walking away. He grabbed a drink from a nearby table and found a comfortable looking corner to weather the night away in. Eskel placed a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “He’s… a work in progress.”

Jaskier sighed. “Is he ever. Thirty years of work, and I’m still finding broken bits of him in his wake.”

“You need to talk to us, Jaskier. Not tonight. Enjoy tonight. But tomorrow, you’re going to tell us what the physician said.” 

Eskel did not brook argument, and Jaskier rubbed the fingers on his shoulders in agreement. Ignoring it hadn’t made it go away. He was right. And if he expected Geralt and Eskel to be open with their thoughts and emotions, then he had to damn well model it properly, didn’t he? He smiled broadly and leaned back to whisper. “That young woman over there has been eyeing you since your arrival. Go ask her to dance.”

“ _Jaskier.”_ Eskel gave him a scandalised look, and then proceeded to cave in to the flutter of those long eyelashes over blue eyes. “Alright, but I think you’re mistaken…”

He wasn’t. The young lady practically fainted with happiness when the handsome soldier - for that’s what he had to be with a physique like that, and those scars must have been earned in battle - approached and requested her hand for the next dance. She lost herself in his golden eyes and his big, gentle hands and Jaskier went to dig Geralt out of his hiding place.

“You too, Wolf, up, up.”

“I’m not dancing, Jaskier.”

“Oh, but you are. At least six women, and three men, eyed your backside as you skulked your way over here,” he took the drink out of Geralt’s hands before taking one and giving an insistent tug. “Come on, I’m not a spring chicken, at least give me the enjoyment of watching you two glide and woo your way around that dance floor. And then when we get home, I will make sure I rub every single scent off you and replace it with my own.”

Geralt stared at him in that intense way that could mean so many things, before he stood and approached one of the women that had shown interest. _Ahh, so he did notice the attention then._ She fluttered her fan and rose demurely from her seat. Geralt held her hand with poise and dignity as they moved around the dance floor. He even _talked._ Legitimate conversation and was… was that a _smile?_ Jaskier watched, his cheek on his knuckles and privately started composing a song to immortalise the vision before him. He already had a name. _Dances with Wolves._

The evening progressed quite pleasantly. Food, drink and educated conversation. Oh, and two gorgeous Witchers enthralling the nobility of Toussaint with their stories and their footwork. Jaskier charmed his way around the room, with his dazzling smile and his entrancing eyes, and so eventually he ended up on the dance floor himself. He whisked the young woman around with enthusiasm, and she giggled and purred at him in appreciation. Once enough alcohol had been drunk for people to question their memories, Jaskier would be taking each of his Witchers to the dance floor for his anniversary dance.

As the music drew to a close though, his chest was beginning to tighten and the room swam in front of him. “Ahh, if you excuse me, I think I require a little fresh air.” Thus excused, he headed towards the exit… only, it just felt further, and further away. He made it up the marble steps, and then the coughing started. It was a dry, heaving cough that caused his entire back to shake as he gasped for air. 

_Can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t call for..._

The coughing became more violent and he staggered - _burning, his chest was burning_ \- and then something gurgled in the back of his throat. When the hands that had covered his mouth came away, his palms and fingers were splashed with blood and tears rose in his eyes. His knees failed him next as his head continued to swim. Vaguely aware of people gasping and shouting for help, Jaskier fell to his side and his body began to shudder. _Chest burning. But cold._

As his vision blurred and faded, he saw Geralt sprinting towards him, but it was so _slow._ Like he was running through water; his voice sounded distant too, a frantic echo a million miles away. As the Witcher slid to his knees and gathered him into his arms, Jaskier blurted through a mouthful of blood, his body racked with pain. “‘M… sorry.”

***

Geralt was at Jaskier’s bedside when he woke. Everything ached and when he opened his eyes, Jaskier squinted in the late afternoon light. “...Geralt?” A big hand wrapped around his and he squeezed those rough fingers weakly. “What…”

“You were unwell at the party. We brought you home.”

When Jaskier could finally focus, he saw that Geralt sat in his usual trousers and black shirt. No party clothes. No scent of alcohol, or sweat or exuberance. “How long…?”

“Two days. I thought…” 

“Think you could… get rid of me that… easily.” Too much talking. The cough rose unbidden from his chest and tore from him with monsters claws. When he had finished, Geralt gently wiped the blood from his lips and sat down on his bedside.

“We called the physician, Jaskier. He told us.”

Jaskier swallowed. He couldn’t look. He couldn’t look at the pain written in those beautiful golden eyes, but as he gazed at the door, it opened and Eskel stepped through. He looked _grey_. His tanned skin drained of colour, face drawn with worry. “I've brought you some water. Some food.” The tray in his hands held a tall glass of fresh water tinted with a dash of red wine, and a plate of dried meats and bread.

“Thank you.” Jaskier croaked, and Geralt helped him sit up.

“He said your chest has a growth in it. Like an extra organ that shouldn’t be there,” Geralt was gazing down at the food as Jaskier picked over it. “And that it was spreading to your mind, and that’s why you feel dizzy and tired all the time.”

“Ahh, doctor… patient confidentiality… clearly optional… here.”

“ _Jaskier,”_ Geralt’s voice thundered through the room, a clenched fist slamming on his own knee, teeth clenched. “When were you going to tell us you were fucking _dying?_ ”

The bard took a mouthful of water and smiled gratefully as Eskel took it from his hands. “I… didn’t know what to say,” he tore the bread into pieces. “How does one tell the mighty Geralt of Rivia? The heroic Eskel? Slayers of… monsters - saviours of… the Continent - that their foolish mortal… bard’s very own lungs have… decided that enough songs have been sung…? I… couldn’t find the words.”

Geralt rose to his feet and paced past the window, hands lifting to run over his head. He had coached himself away from anger. He would not shout. Would not be angry. _Would not_. But it was just so easy, so… default to his way of dealing with the pressure that swelled in his chest. 

Eskel spoke, softly. “It doesn’t matter,” he moved around the end of the bed and took Geralt’s hand from his head to lead him back. “We’re together in this now. You don’t need to fear what is to come.” 

“We’ll be with you every step, Jaskier.” Geralt rumbled, his eyes unable to lift from the food in the bard’s hands for fear that the misery clawing behind his eyes would be unleashed.

The Witchers settled down on either side of their bard to help him eat, and with the weight lifted from him, Jaskier suddenly didn’t smell of fear anymore.


	25. Mending Broken Wings

The sun was setting on another day and Jaskier was getting weaker. The vineyard needed to continue ticking over, and so it fell to Eskel to take the reins and run the estate as Geralt sat by his bard’s bedside. Jaskier was pretty certain Eskel hadn’t slept for more than a handful of hours in the last two weeks, and Jaskier sometimes awoke to see him sitting in the windowsill at night, just gazing at him, or even at Geralt, asleep in the chair. The bard could see the feeling of helplessness in his face and he had to bury his own in his pillow to cover the tears.

“Geralt, you don’t... need to stay... here with me,” Jaskier spoke gently, doing his best to stem the cough clawing its way from his chest, but in the end he failed to provide that little bit of reassurance and doubled over. His Witcher rose from his seat in what was now a practised motion to mop his lips. “Please… go out into the sun, get some… get some fresh air. You’re starting to… look paler than I do.”

“Rest,” Geralt placed one of those large hands on Jaskier’s chest and nudged him until he rested back against the huge nest of pillows. Jaskier’s hands lifted in front of him and his fingers flickered as if across strings; muscle memory, he was thinking about playing. “Do you want your lute?”

“Maybe later, I’m… I’m just… going to close my eyes... for a moment.”

Geralt nodded mutely and sat back down in the armchair. His heart broke a little more.

Weeks went by and Jaskier continued to fade away.

***

“Sir.”

Geralt grunted as he startled awake. Barnabas had lit a handful of candles around the room as the sun set, but the full moon spilling in through the windows almost gave the illusion of daylight. The Witcher blinked at his majordomo, squinting then at his distressed grimace. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s something going on in one of the bottom fields,” Barnabas rang his hands; he was never this unsettled, and Geralt rose to his feet slowly. “Fire, and… explosions. The workmen were just doing some work it was too hot to do during the day, and they’ve all come screaming back about a demon.”

“A demon?” Geralt was on his feet, moving to snatch his two swords from where they were hanging near the fireplace. 'Demon' could be anything. Humans were unhelpful like that. He quickly yanked on his gambeson and snapped the guards to his wrists. It would have to do.

“They said it was moving so fast, and… _sir,_ Master _Eskel_ is there, they said he’s fighting it and,” Barnabas hesitated, “he isn’t winning, you need to hurry.”

“Go, Geralt.” Jaskier was awake and sat up in bed. If it were even possible, more colour had drained from his face, his complexion grey. “Save him.” His White Wolf left the room, and the bard slumped back, scrunching his eyes closed and praying to whatever deity was still interested in him that Eskel was still alive when Geralt arrived. Whatever this _demon_ was had to be something truly terrible to best either of his husbands in a fight.

Geralt pulled Roach from the stables and didn’t even bother with tack. She broke easily into an energetic gallop at the insistence of his heels and he wrapped a fist in her mane. Even from the courtyard he could see the flames burning against the darkened summer sky; Eskel was having to defend himself purely with his Signs. “C'mon Roach.” He snarled through gritted teeth and urged his faithful mare faster, ducking beneath vines and branches that threatened to rip him from her back as her hooves drummed across the ground.

The flames and the vibrations of combat faded into silence as he drew nearer. It meant one of two things; Eskel had won, or Eskel had _lost_. His heart leapt into his throat as he left the crop of vines for open space, silver sword in hand. Ten square metres of ground had been scorched, with random craters and mounds of earth dotted around. The entire crop in this area had been incinerated or wrenched from the soil; Eskel’s Aard had ripped up entire chunks of bound earth, and the ferocity of his Igni made it look like a forest fire had swept through. It hadn’t been enough. Eskel was on his knees, weakened and exhausted even before he had started, his white shirt saturated in red and both hands clawing at an arm wrapped around his throat. His face was turning blue as his enemy tried to choke him into unconsciousness. Only, Geralt recognised that voice…

“Come on, Witcher. Just sleep. Let go. Just… sleep.” 

“ _Regis!_ ” Geralt’s voice travelled like the crack of a whip across the space between them. The vampire startled and released Eskel immediately, stepping back with his hands up. The Witcher slumped forward onto his chest, gasping and clutching at his throat. Geralt was at his side in an instant, kneeling in the ash and the parched soil to scoop him up into his arms. “Eskel, look at me.” Eskel thrashed, his oxygen-starved brain unable to recognise his mate immediately. “It’s alright… it’s alright.” Geralt held his chin and forced those amber eyes to meet his; Eskel stilled, relief and recognition flooded across his face, and the frantic rise and fall of his chest began to calm. 

Geralt looked to Regis next. He must have arrived in his true form, not expecting workmen to be out in the fields still, and caused absolute chaos. Of course, a humanoid bat with red eyes and talons would translate as a demon in their minds. Now, in his human form, he cut a placid, unassuming figure, but as a Witcher, Eskel would have known better. The only way to kill a higher vampire was with another higher vampire, but you could cut or blast one into pieces and spread those pieces as far apart as possible. They always came back eventually.

“I am sorry, truly. I tried to reason with him, but he just would not stop, I--,” Regis sounded pained, and Geralt could see that at least one of Eskel’s Signs had landed. His left arm was severely burned; the material of his doublet melted into his skin. For Regis, it was tantamount to a paper cut and would heal in a day or two. “I was not trying to kill him.”

“I know,” Geralt murmured, stroking a hand over Eskel’s hair. “He’s an alpha with a sick mate at home, an unarmed Witcher faced with a higher vampire, and you’re on his territory in the dead of night. What did you expect?” 

“Granted, I probably should have waited until daylight, but I feared I would be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“I heard your troubadour is gravely ill. I realised then that you had not used my gift as I had intended. I came to remedy that.”

“What?”

“Muta--,” Eskel wheezed, his senses and his voice slowly coming back to him. Even in his dazed state, he had managed to piece together Regis’ arrival with the strange gift he had left two years ago. “Mutagenerator.”

“Precisely.” Regis nodded cordially, tucking his hands behind his back as if they were having a polite conversation in the middle of a town square, rather than surrounded by the blackened remains of their south-eastern field. “Perhaps we should return to your home and discuss this further? I am afraid I caught him in the chest, and I would much like to make that up to him.” Regis indicated his own chest with an apologetic grimace, and when Geralt looked back down at Eskel he could see the wound left behind by one of Regis’ claws across his left pectoral. It would have been an accident, or even a warning shot; if a higher vampire caught him unarmed and actually wanted to kill him, then he would be dead.

“Come on, let’s go home,” Geralt tucked one of Eskel’s arms around his shoulders and helped him to Roach. Rather than go through the discomfort of trying to get onto her back, Eskel used her as a support. The mare, as fond of this Witcher as she was of Geralt and Jaskier, whickered at him gently and weathered the discomfort of his hand bunching in her mane. 

As they walked back, Eskel kept glancing across Roach’s back to Regis. He could see the fond way that the vampire looked at Geralt; the soft smile barely hinting at the corners of his lips, and the appraising eye he cast over his face. Geralt - obviously - completely fucking oblivious. And he felt it for the first time. For the first time _ever_ since he had first mated. _Possessive_ _jealousy._ It was a feral beast that clawed deep in his chest, threatened and humiliated by the beating he had just received, and very keen to separate his omega from this creature’s side. He stamped on the instinct in disgust, and tore his eyes away to stare ahead. 

They hobbled back through the house and Barnabas, ever the stalwart custodian, didn’t even bat an eye as he escorted them to the drawing room. “Just some clean water and a cloth, if you please,” Regis smiled politely, and then approached his foe-turned-patient. When Eskel growled a warning, Geralt rested a hand on his shoulder to stay his temper. 

“Let him sew you up. He’s a surgeon. It won’t even scar.” He helped Eskel off with his shirt, gentle as he carefully pried some cloth away where it snagged in the untidy edges of the wound. When Barnabas arrived with the requested water, warmed by the kitchen's fire, he took the shirt away for repairs and closed the drawing room doors. Geralt sat on the arm of Eskel’s chair, accepting the hand that rested protectively on his thigh with only mild impatience. 

Regis glanced down at that hand and then up to Geralt’s face, but said nothing. He opened his satchel and set out the items he needed, kneeling to clean the blood from Eskel's chest. Geralt knew that Regis’ control was stronger than any metal he cared to name, and his proximity was more to keep Eskel calm than anything else. “You took a great personal risk in coming here.”

“Yes,” the vampire said lightly, dropping the bloodied cloth into the basin. “However, my conscience would not allow me to stay away. Not when I had provided the… forgive me, the _cure_ for what ails you, and you had not used it.” He cleaned the wound itself with alcohol, and Eskel clenched his teeth against the sting. 

“The cure?”

“Jaskier’s mortality, or rather, the illness that threatens it,” he murmured, turning to sterilise the needle first in the flame of the candle on the coffee table, and then in a small bottle of spirit. “When you were here on… dealing with…” Dettlaff’s death was still too raw, and Regis busied himself with the first careful stitches in Eskel’s chest as he mustered his composure. 

Eskel watched his hands, and Geralt could feel his fingers tighten marginally on his leg. The vampire continued, “You expressed regret that he was not with you. That neither of them were.” Geralt shifted on his perch. Even now, he always felt uncomfortable when his worlds collided like this, and Regis had such an easy way of just laying out the contents of his head for scrutiny. “And that you would soon lose _him_ . In your eyes, within the next few decades, but you know he would not stomach true immortality. Vampirism, certainly not. Nothing _eternal_. He is far too bright a flame to survive the crush of eternity. It would destroy him.”

Eskel was looking intently at Regis now. His other hand was gripping the arm of the chair with enough pressure to make the internal frame groan with the strain; it wasn’t pain that caused it though, and Regis tactfully avoided making eye contact to minimise the sense of threat. The vampire looked up at Geralt as he snapped the thread off. “He needs enough to be with you, until the very end, but nothing more. Am I near the mark?” He turned away and wrapped the needle and soiled, alcohol-saturated cloth away in his satchel.

“Yes, but I still don’t understand.”

“The essences you trapped,” Eskel spoke now for the first time since they had arrived. “What are they?”

“I didn’t,” Regis moved away from Geralt, realising his proximity to the Witcher was unsettling his mate, and took a seat at the opposite end of the coffee table. “I confiscated it many years ago from a… well, that doesn’t really matter. What _does_ matter is that the essences contained within that mutagenerator are fae. Long-lived, hardy, but _not_ immortal. Not truly. Exactly like a Witcher.”

“Jaskier will not survive contact with that device, even if he were healthy it would tear him apart.” Geralt left the arm of the chair and began to pace, Eskel's fingers flexed in the emptiness, longing to have him back.

“In any normal circumstance, you would be correct, but…”

“ _Regis_ , for fuck’s sake, please speak plainly. Jaskier is upstairs _dying_ in that bed and there is _nothing_ I, or anyone else, can do. Tell me. I will kill every king, fell every beast; tear this entire world apart to save him _._ ” 

Regis looked slightly taken aback at the flare of anger, and then a flood of renewed respect and admiration for Geralt filled his chest. It was that admiration that had drawn Regis back to his side when the news reached him about Jaskier’s ailment. People like Geralt were rare. Rare enough to treasure. Regis had met very few like him in the endless eternity of his existence, and made up his mind a long time ago that they shouldn’t suffer any more than they already had. He raised his hands in apology. "Forgive me. I haven't spoken to anyone in some time. My words are running away from me."

Eskel felt his chest loosen a little. The small, logical voice in the back of his head informed him just how pathetic he was being, but he gave it a solid mental backhand and told it to pipe-the fuck-down. While he had no right to bar Geralt from being _near_ someone, or _speaking_ to them, he felt like he _did_ have a right to be happy when he shut a potential threat down. _Even if that threat only existed in Eskel’s head._ He felt self disgust rise in the back of his throat like bile. There were more important things at stake than his pride. 

Regis continued. “The ceremony that bonded you in Brokilon forest. There is strength in that bond. More strength than you realise. Before he became unwell, did you not notice how youthful he still looked despite his advancing years? Did you not feel the magic when the priestess began? And you told me that one of your _brothers_ administered the oil. Yet another link that binds him to you." Geralt's brow furrowed, and then he nodded. His medallion had hummed as the ceremony was performed. At the time, he dismissed it as stray magic, but...

"Corvo Bianco was built over ancient elven ruins. Beneath his very house is a water of such purity that it would be the perfect conduit to perform the ritual needed to transfer that fae essence into Jaskier, and for him to survive it,” Regis crossed one leg over the other. “ _You_ are the key to mending your songbird’s broken wings, Geralt. Everything you have done, everything you are, down to the mutagens in your blood. All of it converges to this moment.” 

The silence hung for a moment. The gravity of Regis’ comment sat heavily on the shoulders of the two Witchers in the room. When Eskel spoke, Geralt could hear a subtle crackle in the pit of his voice. "What are the risks?"

"It is relatively unknown magic. There could be side effects. This will not be the first ritual of its kind, but it is the first time the bond has been with a Witcher… _two_ Witchers. One with a heart greater than a mountain, and the other with more magical energy than I have ever seen outside a sorcerer." Regis glanced at Eskel, who was sitting silently, now gazing into the middle distance.

“When?” Geralt's voice cracked. Jaskier was dying. There was really nothing to lose but the final few weeks they had.

“Tonight. I wanted to arrive earlier, but had to avoid a group of my kin. We need the full moon, and from the sounds of it, Jaskier may not have another month,” Regis unfurled to his feet, drawing up to Geralt briefly, and then walking by. “It’s dangerous, and it will cause him pain, and you as well, but I am certain it will work. I remember this land when it belonged to the elves. I know the way.”

“ _Wait_. I need to talk to him. He needs to have a choice.” Geralt looked at the floor, his heart thundering in his ears. And if he said no, then Geralt’s heart would finally shatter, but it _had_ to be this way. 

_Choice_ was the essence of free will, of life. Vesemir had taught them all that when they were boys. There was no good or evil; no right or wrong; only _choice_ and the bleak, grey area of morality it occupied. The choices you made defined you, and you had to be prepared to live with the consequences. The greatest injustice one person could ever do to another is make their choices for them. 

“Of course,” Regis paused, and looked from one Witcher to the other. “We will go as soon as he is ready.”

Geralt headed up the stairs and found Jaskier still clinging to consciousness in the bedroom. His bard sat up, grimacing in discomfort, when he arrived. “I heard… voices. Is he… alright? Is he--?”

“Yes, he’s fine. The demon was Regis... and Eskel was defending his territory,” Geralt sat on the edge of the bed, and took one of the skeletal hands in his. Those hands that had always been so deceptively strong in every way. Strong when they plucked at his lute; strong when they tended to Geralt’s wounds and lifted Eskel above his inner turmoil; strong even in their gentleness, but now they could barely grip Geralt’s fingers. The Witcher swallowed and stared at his feet for some time before he steadied himself enough to speak. 

“Jaskier, I need to ask you to make a difficult decision. There isn’t really time to think about it properly, but… whatever choice you make, I - we - will respect it.”

“Tell me, Geralt.” 

“There is a cure,” he murmured. “And it will need to happen tonight.”

“What... is it?” Jaskier's heart leapt into his throat.

“The mutagenerator I showed you. From Regis. He never gave it to me with the intention that I or Eskel should use it. It’s for you,” he ran his fingers over the silver ring that still adorned Jaskier’s slender finger. “It will take away this illness, and give you a long life. As long as Eskel and I. Not immortality, no eternity of emptiness… just… more time.”

“Hmm,” he squeezed Geralt’s hand, a feeble shade of his usual grip, but the intent was there. “And the price? If there’s one... thing I’ve learned it’s--,” he turned away to cough into the crook of his elbow, wiping away the spittle and the blood on his shirt sleeve with a dismissive scowl, “that all magic… has a cost.”

“It’s dangerous. And it will hurt. We don't know whether there will be any side effects...” 

Jaskier smiled weakly. “There is no greater pain than... being unable to sing, or play, or to hold you and... Eskel properly. I am in agony, in every way, and I... believed there to be only… one end to it.” He shifted his legs from beneath the blanket, his entire face a mask of pain as his chest clenched and his head span. “There was never... any option. I will take... the chance, Geralt. As long as it is with you by my side.” One hand on his Witcher’s shoulder as he left the bed, only to then fall against him when he tried to stand.

“Always.” Geralt scooped Jaskier into his arms and held him to his chest, turning to bury his face into the mop of unwashed hair stuck to his head, inhaling the scent of sweat and sickness, but also the familiar purity that had always followed his bard; chamomile and honey; memories of spring, music, love and pleasure. This had to work. _It just fucking had to._


	26. Part of Me

Regis led them down into one of the wine cellars, and Barnabas-Basil received strict instructions not to intervene if he heard unusual noises. _Not even if he heard screams._ Geralt cradled Jaskier to his chest and Eskel stood at his side with the mutagenerator clutched in his hand. The vampire felt around the flagstone walls with his fingertips, occasionally humming and murmuring to himself. When he found what he was looking for, he clenched one hand into a fist and - to Jaskier’s absolute shock and horror - punched through the solid stone as if it were paper. “Geralt… we need to talk about… the type of friends you keep.”

The Witcher managed a wry smile and tightened his arms around the frail frame contained within them. Regis kicked a few more stones free and stepped through into a dark corridor that smelled of damp and mould. They seemed to walk downwards for an eternity. Following a vampire into the very bowels of hell, Jaskier mused. At least he would arrive at his fate in Geralt’s arms.

Jaskier opened his eyes when the sway of Geralt’s gait stilled. _When had he fallen asleep?_ And he lifted his head to look around the cavernous room. It was an almost perfect dome. Ancient, crumbling pillars, once gilded and decorated, scattered the floor. Broken pots, no doubt undisturbed for centuries, and fractured ceramic tablets shuffled across the floor as the Witchers kicked them aside. Vines and roots had broken through the roof and crumbled the ancient brick and mortar, and Geralt realised that cracks in the dome were allowing light through. Inexplicable, but there it was. Eskel whistled, “Can you feel that?” He tapped his chest, and Geralt nodded. Their medallions were shuddering against their skin, warning of a powerful source of magic all around them.

Regis walked to the centre of the room and the two Witchers followed him, gazing down into the pool with wide eyes. The water was the colour of moonlight. Jaskier tilted his head against Geralt’s shoulder and blinked down at their reflection. “Same silver… as your hair… under the stars.”

“Save your strength.” Geralt clutched his bard protectively to his chest, pressing one final kiss into his damp hair, before he looked to vampire again. “What now?”

“Put the mutagenerator around his neck, take your clothes off, and get in; all three of you.”

“Take our clothes off.” Eskel repeated, deadpan. Regis opened his mouth to point out his surgeon’s credentials and the literal thousands of naked bodies he had seen, but in the end he just wordlessly turned so that the Witchers could strip. Eskel wore only his boots and trousers, and so he was the first to climb in, reaching up to take Jaskier so that Geralt could undress. Regis only turned back when he heard the first sounds of rippling water as the two Witchers shifted through it, carefully settling Jaskier between them.

The bard shivered, but not because the water was cold. It was oddly warm. Like one of the many, many baths Jaskier had quickly hopped into after Geralt to scrub the worst of the muck from his skin on their travels. Perhaps it was the knowledge of the impending finality of their situation. This was it. He knew if this went wrong, if it failed, his last vision of this world would be a dark ruin full of pain. _No._ He clung to Geralt’s biceps and nuzzled Eskel when he stooped down to press a kiss to his cheek. _No. It would be of his two beautiful Witchers._

“Alright. Now, this is the dangerous bit,” Regis shuffled backwards. This kind of magic could hurt even a creature such as him. It had taken decades for Dettlaff to piece him back together the last time; there was no one left to do that for him now. “Activate the mutagenerator. And then say the words that your brother did when he anointed your foreheads. Do you remember them?”

Geralt looked at Eskel who nodded. Regis continued, “You must both hold him. And stay holding him. No matter how much it burns. Do you understand?” Another two nods and Regis indicated with his hands. “When you’re ready.”

“Jaskier, we love you.” Eskel whispered, and Jaskier looked up into those golden eyes with a gentle smile. He tried to say it back, but his chest just felt so… heavy. The Witcher looked to his mate, “Do it.”

Geralt turned the mutagenerator over on Jaskier’s chest and depressed the bright jewel on the front. He could feel the heat of the life that surged from it, and the water around them seemed to warm another three degrees. The essences in glowed white and ebbed and flowed around their prison. The Witchers repeated Lambert’s words slowly, their low voices echoing around the chamber, “Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar.”

It started as a low rumble in the very bowels of the earth, like the Man of Mirrors was trying to break through from the pits of hell. Regis shuffled a bit further away from the pool, crouching down behind one of the many fallen pillars. The water began to bubble and boil as silvery white lines webbed their way through the cracks in the ancient stone of the walls and the floor, converging on them at the centre. 

The hum grew louder and louder until every one of Geralt’s senses were crowded with it. He could taste blood in his mouth and his skin _burned_ ; his eyes whited out as the pain shattered through the defences provided by his mutagens. It was beyond anything he had ever felt, surpassing the Trial of the Grasses, even the additional procedures that had bleached his hair white and dulled his heart. 

_Hold on. Don’t let go._

His mind flooded with memories of leather straps and chains, of vomit, bile and blood, of chemicals blackening his veins and the screams for mercy from the boys either side of him. 

_Don’t let him go._

It felt like striga claws raking through his flesh, the gnashing teeth of a thousand ghouls rending at his organs; an all consuming agony. Geralt was certain it would rip him in half, but he held onto the frail creature in his arms as if he were made of glass. Because Jaskier’s life depended on it, and Geralt would suffer a million agonising deaths to keep him safe.

**_Hold on._ **

The world began to fade around him. Geralt could hear _screaming_ \- a raw, shattering sound, completely inhuman _-_ and as Eskel’s hand latched onto his shoulder in an attempt to remain standing, he realised it was coming from his own mouth _._

***

Jaskier stretched his palms across the smooth linen of the bed. It was warm and soft. _Ahh, so comfortable._ His eyes flickered open and he took a long, deep breath of the warm summer afternoon that flooded in through the window. His lungs filled to the brim and easily released the air through his nose.

_Wait. What?_

He sat up suddenly, his heart hammering in his chest. Blood thundered through his ears as he panted - freely, unabated, _glorious panting_ \- and leapt off the end of the bed. _Leapt._ He looked down at his naked body then and gasped in awe. Hands ran over his skin, smooth and unblemished by age, tight abdominal muscles and filled out biceps used to hauling his bag around after Geralt, and he had to dive over towards the full length mirror by the bathroom.

“Oh, _shit…_ ” His twenty-six year old self gazed back at him in alarm. The grey wisps had vanished from his hair, all but for a single silvery-white forelock, streaked through with obsidian black, that hung down over his right temple. _Different. He could live with it._ He turned around and grabbed his own ass, mouth dropping open. “Hot damn, I forgot how _good looking_ you are.” The excitement was welling in his chest as he turned back to the front again. "Oh my, oh…" His mouth opened and closed as he just kept touching the parts of him he thought he lost decades ago, because if we're frank, darlings, not even an amazing skin routine keeps everything pert. _Fuck._ He looked down at his cock and his thighs and whistled through his teeth. _Yes._ The fervour threatened to burst him open. He just… just needed to… _run._

While Jaskier was practically vibrating on the spot, the two Witchers that had been sleeping either side of him stirred. Geralt rested a hand on his head and grimaced. His limbs were heavy and uncooperative, and his eyes were far too sensitive to tolerate the sun currently streaming in through the window. It felt like he had gone three rounds with a mountain troll. Eskel sat up next to him and looked equally wrecked, his lips twisted in a pained frown, and echoed his sentiments. “I feel like I’ve been eaten by a kikimora.” He croaked, and Geralt grunted in agreement… then Jaskier ran from the room.

The Witchers looked at each other and threw themselves from the bed in a mad sprint after him, adrenalin pushing through their lethargy having only seen a flash of skin and brunette hair flee into the corridor. Eskel just about had the presence of mind to snatch a shirt when he realised Jaskier wasn't wearing a single stitch of clothing. The bard hammered down the stairs and past the majordomo - "Good _morning_ , Barnabas-Basil Foulty!" - and out into the sun. Regis glanced up from his book as two bare-chested Witchers charged after their little hybrid and hummed to himself in amusement.

Jaskier was fast. He blitzed through the courtyard and out into the estate before Geralt had even stepped into the sun. "Geralt, this way!" Eskel shouted back and they pursued him into the crops. He just… kept going. The same man that had bemoaned a two mile trek for water and whined constantly about any uphill incline on their travels. He powered over the uneven soil and brushed through the vines and branches that caught his pursuers in the face and more than once snagged at their legs. By the time Jaskier finally came to a stop at the edge of their southernmost field, Geralt and Eskel were panting and clutching their chests, faces screwed up in pain. Nothing like a pleasant mid-afternoon sprint in the blazing heat with the magical equivalent of a hangover from a month long bender.

Jaskier climbed up onto the roof of the storage shed and spread his arms to the mountains. "I live! I breathe!" When his voice rebounded back at him, like the valley crooning in pleasure at his announcement, he sang. Scaling up through the octaves in a loud, echoing vibrato that could probably be heard for miles around. He was pretty certain he was singing the Nilfgaardian national anthem, but he wasn’t entirely sure. As the final notes faded, he heard the sound of giggling in front of him and looked down to see three women gazing up from the path. One had the eyes of her daughter shielded while covering her own mouth; her companion, bright red, was trying desperately not to look at his cock, and he just winked at her. "All natural, dear heart."

"Jaskier!" He turned and gazed down at Geralt, who was glaring at him with a clenched jaw, "You are fucking _naked_. Get down here." The bard fluttered his fingers at the fair maidens and clambered down. Eskel was slumped against a nearby apple tree in stitches of breathy laughter to the point that tears were prickling at the corner of his eyes. The last few months had been an absolute emotional clusterfuck for him, Jaskier realised, and rather enjoyed seeing him laugh. 

Geralt seized Jaskier by the biceps immediately and held him fast, eyes trying to take in everything at once. "How do you feel? Does anything feel wrong? Off?" And suddenly Jaskier was crushed to his chest as Geralt snuffled through his hair, and then the side of his face and neck. Other than a few nicks on his bare feet, Jaskier was… perfect. No sickness, no darkness, no fear. His medallion even seemed uninterested, resting inert on his chest. "You just outran both of us. There has to be something."

Eskel stepped up to Geralt's shoulder as Jaskier chuckled, rubbing his head against his stubbled jaw. "Hey… it's fine. I've not felt this good in years. It worked, Geralt. No horns. No wings. No weird glowy bits. Come here." He reached up to pull Eskel against him and whispered gently into his ear. "I love you too." Eskel blinked, swallowed with a bashful smile, and held out the shirt crumpled in his hand. Jaskier took it from him with another cheeky grin and pulled it over his head; one of Geralt's and so it was baggy enough to cover most of his modesty. _Most_. 

"Let's go home. I want you to tell me exactly what I have just signed up for, and I believe we have a guest?" He linked his arms through theirs and they returned to the house at a far more sedate pace. Both of them kept looking at Jaskier in wonder, reaching their hands across to touch his face and paw at his hair. He could feel the exhausted relief leaking from their every pore, and he tilted his head to their shoulders, permitting their tactile exploration of his renewal.

By the time they arrived, Marlene had spread breakfast out for them, and Jaskier threw himself gleefully into a seat to inhale the food. Regis joined them at the table, but did not partake. “How did we get back up from the tomb?” Eskel murmured, slumped in his chair and scratching at the scabbed wound on his chest, much to Regis’ clear disapproval.

“I carried you.” The vampire missed the appalled look he received as he examined a bottle of wine curiously, but didn’t open it. Instead, he cajoled the Witchers into eating as they looked glumly at their plates. “You will feel like this for a few days, but you must eat voraciously to recover. Doctor’s orders.” Regis bounced in his seat a bit with a pleased smile - he enjoyed saying that - and Jaskier loved him immediately.

***

In the following days, Jaskier spent time with Regis to fully understand what happened in the belly of the estate. His memory of the night consisted of blurs, Eskel’s declaration of love, blinding pain and then nothing. The vampire patiently explained everything; Jaskier would now age much more slowly, almost imperceptibly. He was linked to his Witchers down to his soul - the very essence of his being - and the vampire motioned at the white lock of hair, peppered with obsidian black. Jaskier smiled fondly as he fiddled with it, “My wolves are part of me.”

“Yes,” Regis leaned forward, and Jaskier studied him closely. He looked like a country doctor; his wizened, kind face, framed by bushy sideburns and erratic grey hair. His eyes were bright, keen and inquisitive as they examined Jaskier. Geralt said that Regis could _choose_ his shape, and had chosen the visage of an unassuming barber surgeon when he swore off blood. For vampires, it was an addiction akin to alcoholism - feverish and undeniable - but they could exist without it. Regis, old and tired of death, had made the choice to do just that. “However long you live, you will live that life together, and then when it is time, you will move into the next world together as well.”

“And they have not… they’re not _hurt?_ Or broken? This didn’t _take_ something from them.” Jaskier sat forward in his chair, hands gripping his knees.

Regis just smiled. “Nothing that they weren’t willing to give you a thousand times over. You already had their hearts, I am sure a little piece of their soul was a small price to pay.” He tapped his chin. “I will be interested to see what else you have received from them, other than your token of love.” Indicating Jaskier’s hair again. “Your little run through the estate was quite impressive, but I feel that was probably the fae. They are spritely little things…”

“Well, as long as I don’t start brooding in the corners of rooms or have the overwhelming urge to slay a kikimora, I’ll be quite content. Or wings, or a tail… or horns. Come to think of it, any physical manifestation would be quite unwelcome. But you’re a surgeon, correct? You could amputate it for me, so really, I’m in good hands.”

Regis chuckled, and nodded in agreement.

“Ah, Regis, I have one more request to make,” Jaskier shifted forward to the edge of his seat again. “I have a project I’ve been working on and I’ve decided to expand the purview. I need your assistance with the first part.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“Well, the title of the project was initially ‘hug every Witcher’,” he explained, face perfectly serious. He had considered his request carefully, after all, hugging a vampire was a bit like putting your head into a striga’s mouth, wasn’t it? Perhaps, perhaps not. “Now I have decided to expand it to ‘hug every lonely soul’, would you be amenable to being the first?”

Regis smiled again, but this time it was a sad tilt to his lips and he looked down at the floor. His hands clasped together and for a moment Jaskier was worried he was going to get his first denial. “I can see why Geralt is so in love with you,” He said finally, and when Jaskier looked uncertain, he rose to his feet and spread his arms. “You burn ever so brightly in the darkness.”

The bard grinned and bounded up into the offered embrace, wrapping his narrow chest and pulling him close. He could feel the solid _density_ beneath his palms, even though Regis was fairly narrow and unimposing. A lot more coiled beneath the surface; his true form, hidden behind a veneer of affability. Yet, Jaskier felt no threat from the vampire in his arms, just a quiet hum of happiness at the show of affection. “Thank you, Regis. Thank you for saving my life. _Our_ lives.” Jaskier was under no illusion; his death would have destroyed Geralt, and then Eskel after him.

“Oh, it is no trouble,” he pulled away and straightened his doublet. “I love Geralt dearly. I would not see him unhappy.” And with that, he offered a shallow bow and left the drawing room to attend to the rest of his packing. After a week, it was time for Regis to leave and head back into hiding. Jaskier watched him leave and realised that some things would never change. _They couldn’t save them all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This dedication is for the esteemed round_robin, because magical springs and pools are their realm of expertise. Thank you for your comments, for even reading all my old works and taking a chance on a random three chapter fic' two months ago.
> 
> Just to clarify, there are certain types of vampire in the Witcher-verse that go out in the sunlight, etc. Others are more classic and have the usual weakness, but they tend to be 'lower' species. Regis is a 'higher vampire' - the strongest, most dangerous, etc - so he can pretty much swan around as he wishes.


	27. Loving Eskel (E)

They ate. They rested. But the Witchers were still sluggish and drained four days later. Eskel especially. It was as if the last few months finally came crashing down on him, and his body couldn’t recover as quickly as he wanted it to. He spent most of the evenings dozing in one of the armchairs in the drawing room and appeared somewhat distant, not intentionally, but as if stuck in a brain fog of exhaustion that occupied all of his attention.

Jaskier carried three glass bottles in his arms. He could feel their coolness even through the fabric of his shirt; a relief after hours of sweating and baking in the heat. The days really were _blisteringly_ hot. Eskel and Geralt sent the workers home to wait out the heatwave, and now the sun was finally setting and the evening was drawing in; it was cool enough for the farmhands to return to work for a few hours. Geralt used the opportunity to give the animals some exercise.

Of course, his Witchers were out in the heat all day. The charred remains of the south-eastern field needed to be salvaged, turned over and made ready for the following season. Geralt and Eskel, predictably, paid little mind to actually eating or _drinking_ anything. _Some things never changed._

Jaskier followed the sound of Geralt’s voice, carried on the late summer breezes, and drew to a stop by the paddock. _Strange that he could hear all the way from the courtyard._ He paid it no mind. Roach was standing on the outside of the fence, happily tugging at a ball of hay hanging from a post, and Eskel sat on the top bar next to her. He was enthralled by Geralt and his work with the horse in the centre of the field. This was not in the Witcher training regime, even though Eskel was familiar with the fundamentals. Geralt had been taught by someone outside Kaer Morhen. Probably an Aen Seidhe. 

“You’re looking broodingly handsome this evening.” Jaskier nudged him lightly in the centre of the back and the Witcher twisted to take one of the bottles clutched to his chest.

“I always look this good,” he replied lightly, smirking through the sip of water; a sip that quickly turned into half the damn bottle when he realised just how thirsty he really was. “Thanks.”

“So, how is the training of Roach the thirteenth coming on?” Roach the twelfth was retiring. Old and tired, she deserved to live her final years in comfort; chomping on green grass, hay and apples to her heart’s content. Geralt had already decided she would remain behind at Toussaint this season, where the climate was warmer and the grounds more plentiful. War horses didn’t live long, and the horses of Witchers lived the shortest lives of them all. This Roach had served Geralt for the last seventeen years; the oldest, hardiest, most esteemed of the Roaches.

“Ssshh, don’t say it so loudly,” Eskel whispered, and patted Roach on the side of her neck. She lifted her head and blinked sedately at him, before returning to her hay bag with gusto. “She’s lively, but Geralt likes that. This Roach,” he tapped the loyal mare again, “drew blood the first time they met. Match made in heaven.”

“I do vaguely remember binding that wound up actually, but he bought her already broken in,” Jaskier smiled and leaned on the fence to watch. Geralt had his new filly at the end of a lunge line, and she trotted happily in circles around him as he clicked at and praised her. That morning, he had watched Geralt with the halter, throwing it before her, and then withdrawing it until she relaxed. Each time he got a bit nearer, allowing her to eye the harness while talking to her softly, until eventually she dropped her head to his hand and accepted it around her face. “I’ve never seen a horse trained like this. I’ve watched soldiers and stablehands do it - Redanians, Temerians, Nilfgaardians - they just throw the saddle on until the poor beast breaks.”

“That’s horse breaking. They nickname this ‘horse whispering’. Broken spirits don’t breed loyalty,” Eskel murmured, head tilted to the side as Geralt drew the animal to a stop with his voice, he stepped towards her, but moved back when she drew a hoof uncomfortably across the ground. “Would you want to be with someone who hurt you until you did as you were told? Would you charge into danger at their beck and call if they had whipped and beaten you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Jaskier pulled the cork from a bottle top with his teeth and took a swig. Geralt looked truly beautiful in the fading evening light. Long, silvery-white hair tied back in a loose tail behind his head, shirt opened low, revealing skin that had tanned under the relentless scrutiny of the sun’s rays. Jaskier admired the flex of his forearms as he worked the rope, keeping his elbow up and moderating the horse’s pace as she circled him again, tossing her head with a flare of impudence now and then, but otherwise marking his clicks and the light pressure around her nose. _Why was he suddenly jealous of a horse?_

“Approach and retreat, pressure and release, reward and consequence. Reminds me of what you do to Geralt,” Eskel smirked. “But he’s still in training after thirty years. I think you need to be a bit more forceful, Jaskier.”

The bard laughed. “That’s it then. I am forever the Witcher whisperer. Lulling my feral stallions out of their shells in hopes they will - one glorious day - be trained enough to overcome their surliness and use their words.”

“Mmm,” Eskel smiled, noting the use of the plural rather than the singular, but not commenting further. They sat in silence for a while and watched Geralt slow the horse to a sedate walk, his elbow dropping, and her nostrils puffed at him. “Makes me miss Scorpion,” Eskel sighed finally. “He was a good horse.” 

The memory of Letho yanking him from the floor during a winter storm rose unbidden in his mind, and his fingers subconsciously probed at the shoulder that hadn’t been the same since. Scorpion’s anguished cries as arrows felled him still prickled a sadness deep in his heart. Eskel barely had the presence of mind at the time to rest a hand over his horse’s face to comfort him as his own world faded to black.

The bard tore his eyes away from Geralt to study Eskel, framed in the soft oranges and yellows of the setting sun behind him, he looked almost ethereal. Eskel had been a bedrock in the last few months; an anchor in the tumultuous sea of Jaskier’s illness, even as Geralt’s emotions tore him to pieces. He sat there now, wistfully wishing after his fallen stallion, like the big ball of softness he really was. Jaskier and Geralt’s ball of softness. A ball of softness that needed a damn sight more care and affection than he had received recently. “Why don’t you head in for a bath? I asked Marlene whether she could get the water ready before I left. I’ll help Geralt with the… Roaches.” _This was going to get confusing._

“Hmm, alright,” Eskel swivelled on the fence, and leaned over to press a kiss into Jaskier’s hair. He walked away humming quietly to himself, flipping the empty bottle over in his hand with enviable dexterity. Jaskier turned back to watch Geralt, who was now applying patient pressure and release tactics to familiarise the new girl with _stop_ \- ‘woah, Roach’ - _stay_ \- a light pressure on her chest - and _heel_ \- a sharp whistle. There were a few more that Jaskier had heard over the years, but it must be like training an infant. Start slow, build up. 

The filly followed Geralt towards the gate with a final energetic toss of her head - just reminding him who was really in charge - and he tied her to the fencepost near Roach Senior. The mare gave a dismissive snort, nosing at the younger horse when she tried to partake of the hay. Jaskier passed Geralt the final bottle of water, allowing him a moment to drain its contents. “Just when I thought I couldn’t become more attracted to you, you show me Geralt the horse whisperer. I don’t think my poor heart can take much more.” 

Back of his hand across his forehead, feigning injury, Jaskier sighed dramatically. Geralt’s lips quirked into a small smile as he drew a little closer. Jaskier didn’t have to crane far to find a kiss, cool from the spring water. When they drew apart, Jaskier ran his tongue in a long trail up the side of Geralt’s neck, a promise for later, but Geralt was looking around the paddock with a furrowed brow. “Where did Eskel go?” He too had been eyeing the weight of exhaustion on his mate's shoulders with concern.

“I sent him back for a bath,” Jaskier played with a strand of loose white that had slipped free of the tie behind Geralt’s head. “I think tonight we need to worship him. He deserves it.”

A grunt of agreement and they headed back with the two horses in tow, Geralt listening as Jaskier talked quietly to Roach Senior about all the lovely oats and apples she was going to enjoy in her retirement.

***

The room was cool and Eskel sprawled out gratefully on fresh cotton sheets. Sweat and dirt now scrubbed from his limbs, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the prickle of the evening breeze across his still damp skin. The day’s work had been backbreaking under the glare of the sun. He would never privately mock a farmhand _ever_ again, and quietly withdrew all the other times he had scoffed at their impertinence. Serenaded by the chirp of the nest of sparrows outside their window and vine leaves rustling, he quickly abandoned thoughts of muck-crusted peasants in favour of two sets of eyes that always blazed in the back of his mind - one set golden, one set blue.

At some point he must have slipped into his meditative state, because he was only vaguely aware of Geralt and Jaskier entering the room. His mind focused in on the mixture of scents that heralded their arrival, and he idly sorted them. Chamomile, honey and something a little sharper since the ritual - Jaskier. Spring rains, leather and arenaria - Geralt. Uniquely them. He could taste it in their sweat when he kissed their necks and shoulders, when he licked his tongue up the inside of their thighs and took their cocks in his mouth. _Hmm._

“It’s quite flattering when my mere presence turns someone on,” Jaskier quipped, throwing the washcloth back into the water and roughly toweling himself off. “Tell me, dear heart. What were you thinking about?” 

Eskel cracked an eye, but remained splayed across the bed, unmoving. Too comfortable. “If I said it wasn’t sucking you off, would you believe me?” He followed Jaskier as he prowled, fingers twitching against the bedsheets. There was a fine line between enjoyment and threat when Jaskier eyed him like that because of his pheromones alone, and Eskel walked it with enthusiasm. 

“No, I would call you out on your lie and proceed to prove the deceit,” he sat down on the edge of the bed, slender fingers walking their way up Eskel’s wrist to smooth over his thick bicep. “What else?” 

“The taste of your skin...” The flutter of fingertips over his arm distracted him from Geralt’s approach, as silent and stealthy as a Witcher should be, and Eskel looked across suddenly as the mattress sank under additional weight. Eyes of fire stared down at him, and he reached a hand lazily from the bed to knot in the silver medallion that swung from Geralt’s neck like a leash to pull him down. 

Geralt kissed him languidly, he tasted faintly of wine, accented by the sharp tang of arousal and Eskel moaned into his mouth. Rough fingers carded through Geralt’s hair, tugging the tie that secured it until soft tendrils fell across Eskel’s neck and face in a silken curtain. The vague sound of a drawer grating open and then snapping closed as Eskel lost himself in Geralt's scent, the alluring bloom of his omega tugged at the instincts in the pit of his stomach; he twisted that chain tighter and mouthed up the side of Geralt's neck when it was exposed to him. 

A slow, easy fuck after a hard day's work suddenly sounded like a brilliant idea. Eskel rolled onto his front and sat back on his heels, yanking Geralt to him, still held tightly on the end of his leash. Taut thighs sprawled either side of his, the thick cock of his mate rubbed the valley of his abdominals, hot and hard with want. When two slender hands raked their way down his side's to clench his ass, fingers kneading and spreading him apart so that thumbs could brush lightly over more tender flesh, Eskel growled into Geralt's mouth, "Jaskier…"

"Oh come on, you loved it last time, and _this_ time I'm thirty years younger… well, physically. All the experience is still right here, don’t you worry, my dear," the bard sidled up onto the bed, and grinned into Eskel's back as he pulled their bodies flush. The low vibration of that growl continued beneath Jaskier's tongue as he lapped the trajectory of a long scar across Eskel's shoulder blade, fingers tugging at the grooves of his hips. His cock pushed between his legs to nudge the back of his balls, his shaft teasing sensitive areas with searing heat. 

Jaskier knew he was playing with fire. Eskel was the bigger alpha. If he so wanted, he could turn around the bend Jaskier over more easily than he could Geralt. Yet, he wouldn’t. The term ‘gentle giant’ had never applied so readily to any other man in living memory, and he was now greedily canting his hips back to encourage the rut, enjoying the brush of soft skin between his thighs. 

The rumble faded and Eskel spread his legs, pushing Geralt down onto his backside, but keeping him close and splayed with a light touch behind his knees. Their cocks brushed past fleetingly and Geralt dropped a wide palm between them to bring them back together as Eskel kissed him.

For Jaskier, it was a dream come true. Another chance at Eskel's gloriously tight ass, and with all the vigour of his younger self. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, thanked the gods and pressed his lips to the broad back in front of him. Sat upright, Eskel's hole was taut and sensitive, and Jaskier teased the blunt head of his cock across it in anticipation as he drew back; hot and already slick with precum, it coaxed a low moan from deep in Eskel's chest. Jaskier coated his fingers with the oil from their bedside and replaced the touch of his shaft with gentle caresses. He circled and teased that tight bud, massaging and tugging until it began to relax under his fingertips and Eskel shivered. 

Geralt felt the moment that Jaskier slipped his first finger inside in Eskel’s reaction against his skin; a hot breath panted out across his neck and Eskel's cock leapt in his hand. Geralt slowed his pace and nuzzled his way under Eskel's chin to lace his throat with gentle nips and kisses, supplication rather than dominance. Eskel tilted his head back and bore back on Jaskier's finger as it fucked slowly into him. A light nudge on his back pushed him forward again to improve the angle and Jaskier slid a second in to begin stretching him open. Geralt was watching Eskel's face intently, his mouth open and slick soaking the sheets below him as that hazy, blissed look set him ablaze. 

"Gods, your ass feels so tight," Jaskier crooked his fingers and fluttered them across Eskel's prostate, making the smooth walls around his fingers spasm and clench. _Fuck_ , with a bit of experience and practice this ass could become a seriously good power bottom. Just needed to relax and experiment. “I volunteer as tribute.” Jaskier sighed it before he could stop himself.

“What?” Eskel’s voice had softened, but he still managed to sound incredulous, pulling away long enough to flick a glance over his shoulder.

“Nothing, nothing… you are just too hot for your own good.” A third finger pushed into Eskel's depths and a low, keening whine escaped the Witcher as Jaskier slid into the knuckle. "Can't wait to feel my cock inside you, hm?"

"Stop talking and fuck me," Eskel rasped, licking a line down the side of Geralt's neck for a hit of sweat and pheromones that made his head spin. Enough to begin tearing out the last remaining remnants of his control, and he pushed Geralt away onto his back, falling between his thighs to draw another long lap along his groin. The shiver that quaked the pale flesh beneath his mouth only spurred him on, and he swallowed Geralt’s cock, gathering his legs over his shoulders and gripping his hips in place to prevent him thrusting. The scent of Geralt’s musk, of slick and clean sweat was driving Eskel into a tailspin of need; he just wanted to consume it all.

The sight of Geralt shaking and gripping the sheets under Eskel’s mouth, the flex of the muscled back sloped down towards the bed and the wet, relaxed hole that practically begged for his cock as it glistened there in front of him threatened Jaskier’s composure. _Fuck_. He gave his balls a quick tug, biting down on his lower lip as he smoothed his fingers over the curve of one tight ass cheek. “Your wish is my command.” Not the stop talking bit, obviously. He hooked his fingers into the grooves of Eskel’s hips and pulled him into place; the arch of his spine, somehow pliant and demanding at the same time, made Jaskier’s cock throb in reply.

He gripped the base of his cock and rubbed his head through the oil, watching the ring flex and flutter in response and Eskel grunted between Geralt’s thighs. “Ja--, _oh fuck.”_ The stretch was more than he remembered and he pulled away from Geralt only briefly to grit his teeth and acclimate to the intrusion. The pace was slow, a gentle back and forth that his body could ease into, and with each careful thrust Jaskier buried himself deeper. “Ahh, _yes…”_ The bard shuffled closer, encouraged by Eskel's breathy moans, canting his own hips to adjust the angle until he achieved the first shuddered gasp. _Perfect._

Eskel was determined to come with his face and tongue buried in Geralt, and he shifted his weight onto one elbow to rub his cock, still slick with saliva, while his tongue lapped at the slick across the curves of his ass, working slowly to his entrance in long, lava-hot streaks. Geralt was wrecked above him, shivering and panting as he tried to moderate the noise escaping his throat. The pressure of his orgasm was building and Eskel could feel it in the flick of the cock against his palm, but he couldn’t maintain the presence of mind to provide any rhythm or coordination to his attention. He licked, mouthed and sucked, consuming every bit of taste and scent he could as Jaskier ploughed into him at just the right angle to set his body on fire.

“Fuck, I thought I was never going to do this again, fuck, fuck, fuck,” the bard cursed a liturgy into the room, his eyes both wanted to screw shut to focus on that glorious pressure, but also watch Eskel’s body swallow him greedily. He knew how Eskel liked it, and gripped the Witcher’s hips as he assaulted his prostate. The heat, the pulsating tightness; it was dragging Jaskier kicking and screaming towards the edge and he damn well refused to spill before Eskel was emptying onto the bed sheets. 

_Don’t come yet, don’t come yet - toss a coin to your Witche-e-r - no, no, Geralt in armour, the song of the white wo-o-lf, no definitely not, all that beautiful white hair and brooding… f-f-f-... ahh, you flee my dream come the morning, your scent, berries tart, violet - yes, that, thank you Priscilla._ It was enough to haul him back from the edge, but barely.

Eskel’s messy attention across Geralt’s groin earned its just reward and Geralt came with a low moan, stuttering when a hot mouth descended over him to swallow every drop. Never had Jaskier felt such blessed relief than when Eskel reached beneath himself, providing that last nudge he needed to ignite the explosion building at the base of his spine. He groaned into Geralt’s thigh, spit and come coating Geralt’s skin as he mouthed it with a final desperate kiss. “Fuck, Ja-s-s-.. nngh.” Another low moan as heat filled him, followed by the unfamiliar pressure of being locked together. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Eskel was a wreck. Every limb quivered with aftershocks, and not a single valid thought could coalesce in his mind.

Geralt returned to himself first, propping up on his elbows to pet Eskel’s hair. Never had it been more satisfying to see someone’s face covered in saliva and his come, and he bit on his lower lip with a pleased grunt, eyes flickering up to Jaskier. And there he was, looking like a fucking god, his bronzed skin shining with sweat, head thrown back and mouth open as he huffed greedily for air. 

It was easy to forget how people changed over time. Geralt loved Jaskier; his intelligence, his keen wit and his gentle, loving nature, but also every smile-line, every blemish and grey hair that had refined him as he aged. In the early years, he had taken the young, earnest troubadour for granted. An irritant and a pest. Geralt was grateful for the opportunity to run his eyes over that lightly muscled torso in a new light, lithe and fit, as it had been when they first met.

“Well, I’m glad you like what you see,” Jaskier purred and Geralt focused on him; those huge pupils and the way his teeth worried at his lower lip. “Because you’re next, Witcher.” That feral grin stole Geralt’s breath away.

***

Unrelenting stamina was clearly something Jaskier had inherited. By the time midnight struck, both his Witchers were spent and exhausted, and the bard sat between them both as they sprawled on their backs, sweat-slick hair plastered to their heads, feeling like the absolute don of sex. He allowed them to sleep and flexed out on top of the blankets, satisfied by the aches in his muscles and the matching soreness of his cock and ass. _The next few hundred years were going to be exquisite._

It wasn’t the only little gift that came out of the woodwork. They appeared sporadically, as if his body was piecing together what it could and deciding what fragments were serviceable and what were not. The first time his enhanced hearing revealed itself three days later, he sat bolt upright in bed in abject terror. “Geralt, Eskel. Wolves. There are wolves in the house. Not _you_ , actual fucking wolves.” 

Geralt blinked sleepily from the pillow and then cocked his head to the side. “Mmm. No Jaskier, those are miles away.”

“No, no. I can hear them. They must be in the dining room, they must… _Barnabas, what if they kill him_? Geralt, get your sword, get--.”

“ _Jaskier,_ ” Eskel was awake now, gazing at him with a furrowed brow. “Look at me.” So the bard looked into those stern golden eyes and allowed his hand to be pressed to Geralt’s chest too. The steady drum of that familiar heartbeat grounded him and his breathing steadied again.

“Is this…? Is this from you?”

“I think so,” Geralt murmured, studying him closely. “We need to test it out.”

Each time Jaskier startled awake that night, Geralt or Eskel wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. His night-time lullaby the steady beat of a Witcher’s heart under his ear. To help him adjust, Geralt began an exercise in the evenings, when the grounds were quieter. _Hide and seek._

“Geralt, that’s a child’s game…” But the first time he pulled the blindfold out, Jaskier’s cock practically jumped up and begged. 

“No. It’s for training.”

Blinded, Jaskier had to use his keen hearing to locate Geralt. They started in the courtyard, but as he grew more confident they expanded their game to the rest of the estate. His Witcher led him by making deliberate noise. Sometimes soft, sometimes loud; sometimes he put meters between them, and sometimes he drew up close, just within Jaskier’s reach before he flitted away. A couple of bruised knees, several grazed palms and a broken bench later, and Jaskier was finding his lover with ease just by listening for his breath when he was close. 

“I deserve a reward.” He tugged the blindfold from his eyes and turned it over in his hands.

“Hmm, alright. What did you have in mind?” Geralt placed his hands on his hips, clearly oblivious despite the wide grin that unfurled across Jaskier’s face.

“Well…”

The first time he used the blindfold on Geralt, he reduced him to a sweaty, shuddering mess in the centre of their bed through touches and kisses alone. His omega whimpered and hung his head as Jaskier’s fingertips tickled up the back of his neck. On hands and knees, he had been commanded to keep completely still with his legs spread, and it was taking all of his willpower to not buckle.

Eskel licked the beads of sweat from the small of Geralt’s back as he lined up behind him, cock hard and wanting. “Jaskier, you’re a genius.”

The bard grinned as he weaved his fingers through Geralt’s hair and pulled his head down towards his lap. “Oh, I know.” He tilted his head back in bliss when Geralt’s mouth slid over the head of his cock, tongue working the sensitive join at the top of his shaft. If every one of his little gifts provided these types of opportunities, then Jaskier was _really_ looking forward to exploring each and every one of them.


	28. Who Do You Love?

“With you two prowling around I doubt any bandit would dare set up camp within a hundred mile radius,” Jaskier batted Geralt away, but pulled him back for a kiss when he looked somewhat disgruntled. “I’ll be fine. Just a quick walk to get the creative juices flowing.” 

“I’ll… wait here then,” Geralt glanced around the courtyard, clearly at a loss, and Jaskier’s heart melted at the slightly confused expression. No need to protect Jaskier in his own back garden. “If there are any problems, you need to come straight back. No heroics.”

“If the sparrows and the rabbits prove too much, I’ll be sure to head home.” Jaskier waved his hand and headed out into the nearby woodlands with his lute strung over his shoulder. 

It didn’t take Jaskier long to lose himself in the birdsong and general rustle of nature. The Witchers had done a rather fine job in cleaning up the surrounding countryside, like surly, lethal spring cleaners. Bandits, a werewolf, a couple of wraiths and a group of drowners down by the nearby river had all fallen prey to Geralt and Eskel. You could take the Witcher off the Path, but you couldn't take the Path out the Witcher. They couldn't sit idly by while monsters terrorised their locale, and so Jaskier reluctantly gave his blessing. However, watching them explain awkwardly to the villagers that they didn’t require payment and no, they also didn’t require a Child Surprise to drag back to their lair, simultaneously warmed and _broke_ his heart. Still so much work to do to break down those stereotypes. 

Jaskier found himself a nice sunny spot next to a little waterfall and began to pick away at his lute. He warmed up through the scales and flexed his fingers out in front of him. It was so nice to play without a constant aching cramp in all his joints. Old age truly was a pestilence for musicians. It was as he was pulling his songbook out his satchel that he caught it. A scent. It was faint, but so, so _familiar._ Memories of Kaer Morhen and potato moonshine, games of gwent, laughter and a stilted embrace in the sleeping quarters.

Wandering feet carried him after it before he even realised, his nose turned to the air as he huffed and sniffed his way deeper into the woodland. When the scent grew weaker, he backtracked until it became strong again and continued in a different direction. This continued until his ears picked up a rather unpleasant squelching, cracking sound… and so he followed that. 

“Lambert?”

“Jaskier.” Lambert was busy gutting and bleeding a deer, and didn't look ‘round as the bard entered the clearing; very recently killed if the smell was anything to go by. Jaskier lifted his arm to cover his mouth and swallowed the rising bile in his throat.

“What are you doing in Toussaint? I thought your hunting grounds were Aedirn and Kaedwen.”

The Witcher wiped his knife on his trousers and slid it back into the sheath over his chest. Deer now prepped, he lifted it from the floor and effortlessly carried it on his shoulder to the quiet bay that waited for him nearby. The horse grunted and stamped as the carcass was thrown over the saddle and bound with ropes. Only now did Lambert look at Jaskier, nostrils flaring as the scent of blood cleared for but a moment.

Without warning, the Witcher strode over to him and stopped impossibly close. Jaskier relied purely on his biology to stand his ground in front of a beta, because otherwise he _definitely_ would have taken a step back. Lambert was intense, like fire bound inside a hurricane, and the heat of the sun seemed to glare from the two golden eyes that bore down into Jaskier’s blue ones. “What happened to your face?”

“My… face? Ah, well, there was a little complication recently, and a bit of magical intervention was needed, and…”

“You smell different too.”

“Ahh, like honeysuckle and moonbeams, I hope?”

Lambert grunted. “Still like a tart. But a posh one now.”

“A… posh one,” Jaskier blinked, lips pursed, as that broad back retreated and Lambert took his horse by the reins. “Well, as long as it's an improvement.” 

The Witcher grunted, then gestured in the vague direction of Corvo Bianco. “Lead the way.”

“Oh, you’re… visiting?”

“Yes,” Lambert sounded a little irritated, and gestured at the doe on the back of his saddle as if it made that very obvious. “I’m bringing dinner.”

“Of course you are,” Jaskier turned away to hide his smile. He led Lambert back through the woodlands, trying to tease out of him the purpose of his visit, but receiving only side-eyes and stony silence. _Intriguing._

Geralt met them in the courtyard. True to his word, he had _waited_ for Jaskier to return. Upon seeing his brother emerge from the trees at the bard’s shoulder, his eyebrows both leapt towards his hairline. “Lambert.” He stepped forward and seized Lambert’s forearm in greeting, head tilting to examine the doe across the saddle. “For dinner?” A grunt of confirmation and the two headed away towards the stables. 

There were no jubilant greetings between Witchers. The real statement went unsaid because it was so overwhelmingly obvious. _I’m glad you’re alive_. Jaskier watched Geralt quietly examining his brother’s face, his stance and his gait in quick sidewards glances; he was seeking injury in their shared silence, but could see nothing that explained the faint smell of blood and infection. So, the _why_ still went unaddressed. Lambert was too pragmatic to come all the way south, away from his usual hunting ground, for a familial visit.

Jaskier headed into the vineyard to retrieve Eskel.

***

Barnabas-Basil showed Lambert to the guest room and he arrived at dinner looking much cleaner than he had in the woodlands, and far less intimidating without his armour and gambeson. He didn't look at any of them and pulled bread and meat to his plate to eat in silence. No wisecracks, no witty repartee, just _silence_. Eskel and Geralt held a non-verbal exchange over the table - squints, twitches of the lips and glares - deciding what to do about it.

In the end, Geralt leaned back in his chair, goblet of wine in his hand. “Any interesting contracts lately?” He defaulted to their most natural line of conversation to get the ball rolling.

“Basilisk in Scala, nice and simple, picked off a Gakrain outside Riedbrune, no payment though, locals chased me off with torches and pitchforks.” 

Jaskier flinched. “I’m sorry, that’s--.”

“Happens,” Lambert shrugged, went to pick up the food with his hands, paused, and then grabbed a fork instead. “The fucker bit me on the arm though, so I could use some salves if you’ve got any going free. Think it’s infected.”

“Fuck, Lambert,” Eskel snagged the napkin from his lap and threw it down onto the table as he went to stand. “Didn’t think of mentioning that so we could treat it when you arrived? I could smell something, but didn’t want to push it.”

“Eskel, wait, I…” He placed his cutlery down. “Before you go, I came to…” He clenched his jaw, sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “I need to ask for some advice.”

The two older Witchers looked at each other sharply. _Shit, this was serious._ Eskel lowered himself slowly back into his chair, eyes levied solely on Lambert. Jaskier sucked in a breath and struggled with the despondent sight before him. Suddenly the Fire Child had dissipated. The asshole that made him laugh at Kaer Morhen with his biting tongue and his, quite frankly appallingly hilarious, impressions of Vesemir. All of it had vanished. All Jaskier could see was a frightened little brother who had sought out his older siblings for guidance, and was struggling to voice the assistance he needed, his shoulders hunched in shame.

Lambert reached into his pocket and then extended a closed fist over the table, he placed his palm flat with a metallic clatter and left it there for a hesitant moment, before lifting it away to reveal a silver band.

Geralt gazed at it for a moment, and then swallowed. “Is that a--?”

“Yes.” Lambert said flatly, staring at it as if it were a ticking dancing star bomb.

Eskel chimed in now. “From Aiden?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier bounced in his seat, hands clapping together. “Lambert, that’s amazing. Oh my, that’s… you’re so good together, and--.” He stilled as all three Witchers stared at him. Ah. An apologetic grimace, and he settled back. “When did he propose?”

“Five days ago in Lyria.”

“You don’t look… _thrilled._ ” Jaskier squinted. “I’m assuming you said ‘yes’, otherwise you wouldn’t have the ring.”

Lambert clamped his lips together, sucked in a breath through his teeth and put his face in his hands, clearly despairing. “I grabbed the ring and I ran away.”

Eskel blinked and Geralt’s mouth fell open. Jaskier covered his own to kill the incredulous laugh that threatened to spill out. Eskel spoke carefully, “You… grabbed it, and… ran away?”

“Spent a really great night together, you know, the usual, and he started talking about the ceremony in Brokilon and how he'd enjoyed it, didn't think anything more and fell asleep,” he glanced up at them, and then back down at the ring. “Then in the morning, when we were about to get back to the Path, he got down on one knee, thought he was fucking around, told him to stop being a dick. Then he pulls it out his pocket, holds it up, tells me that he wants to be with me forever, and…” He gritted his teeth together as if recalling the memory was physically painful. “Asked me to marry him. So, I… freaked out and I grabbed the ring from his hand, then I jumped out the window.”

Jaskier had to bite the inside his cheek to stop the laughter. This was too much. Too sweet and too funny. When he thought he had the tremor in his voice under control. “And you came straight here?”

“It’s not funny, bard,” Lambert levelled a rather menacing glare. “I have no idea what to do now.”

Geralt could sense the flood behind the dam, Lambert was practically shaking in his seat. It was a subtle vibration, his heart was hammering inside his chest and his pupils were wide in a fear response, so Geralt prompted quietly, “Tell us why you ran away.”

“It’s just fucking stupid,” he seethed out. “My only experience of marriage is… I mean, they were fucking miserable and… what if it...” 

Eskel sighed, elbow on the table, head tilted down to search for Lambert’s face. “Aiden is not your father, Lambert. You aren’t either. Not all marriages are like that. And if he ever lays a hand on you in that way, then Geralt and I will quite gladly join you in kicking the shit out of him. Fuck, we'll invite Vesemir down and make it a family affair. The old man can really stick his boot in."

A grunted response, perhaps it could have even passed as a laugh; the thought of Vesemir, stoic and unbending, losing his rag with someone enough to beat them senseless clearly amusing. Lambert leaned back with a heavy sigh, arms folding across his chest. “I’ve fucked it though, haven’t I? He’s never going to want to see me again.”

“Not necessarily,” Jaskier murmured, heart aching at the sight of the youngest wolf brought so low. As amusing as his response had been, it had been born out of fear and uncertainty. There was nothing funny about the lasting damage of abuse, and Jaskier deeply regretted his earlier mirth. _Fuck_ , how were they all so broken, and yet so strong at the same time? “If he is truly devoted to you, then an apology and an explanation will suffice. And if it is not enough, then it was never meant to be in the first place.”

“And… uh, you… you lot make it work? I mean, I don’t exactly have a vineyard to retire to, but you made it work on the Path too, right? Witchers don’t… do this, do they? We walk the Path, we die on the Path, and there’s nothing else,” he sniffed, cleared his throat and squirmed subtly in his chair. This kind of emotional outpouring was profoundly uncomfortable for him, and Jaskier had a new found respect for his courage. “I don’t think I can watch Aiden die on the Path.”

Eskel lifted a hand and rested it carefully on Lambert’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. “You don’t have to. When you’ve had enough, you know where we are.”

Lambert looked up suddenly, first to Eskel, then to Geralt, and finally to Jaskier. “No, that’s--, I didn’t come to invade this... what you have. It's... I haven't earned this.” 

A grunt from Geralt and he knocked back his wine. “We don’t think you came here looking for handouts, Lambert. You’re our brother. What we have is yours and vice versa, just like it always has been,” he stood, chair legs scraping on the flagstones. “We’d keep you here now, but you’re still young and you’d get bored in about three days. Now, I want to see that bite, because it fucking reeks.”

Eskel took him by the scruff and hauled him from the seat. Lambert looked too bewildered to argue and allowed himself to be manhandled upstairs for treatment. Jaskier stayed at the dinner table, sipping at his wine with a wistful smile on his face. Well, what was one more project.

***

It was early in the morning and Lambert’s eyes flickered open to the sporadic impact of something hard on the glass of the window. He reached instinctively for the dirk under his pillow - because he slept with one wherever he lay his head - and walked tentatively to investigate, back flat to the wall as he peered down over the ledge. “Oh, fuck…” 

“I can hear you,” Aiden called up. “Open the fucking window, or I start throwing dancing star bombs instead of stones, and that’ll really piss off the neighbours.”

Lambert slumped back against the wall, butting his head against it several times. Of course Aiden had pursued him. Why had he expected anything less? You didn't wait over half a century for something and then let it slip through your fingers. Lambert finally dragged himself across to the sill and opened the window. “Aiden.”

“Lambert,” the Cat looked fairly serene. “Quite a nice place your brothers have here. I’m assuming you didn’t stop by for the wine though. So what did they say?”

“That I needed to apologise and explain,” he rested both palms in front of him, head dropping between his shoulders as he dredged up the courage. There was nothing in the handbook for this; nothing in his already respectably long life prepared him to deal with Aiden's open, expectant face. Nothing prepared him for _love._ A low growl rumbled in Lambert's chest as he worked over the knot of frustration buried there. Killing werewolves was easier than this shit. “I’m sorry. I… didn’t react in the right way.”

“Not gunna’ lie, I’ve never had a lover jump out a window to get away from me before. It was a first,” he folded his arms across his chest. “Was kinda’ hoping I’d be calling you something different by now though.”

“I, uh… would like another chance. If that’s alright with you.”

“Hmm,” Aiden glanced over his shoulder in thought. He knew Lambert better than the Wolf knew himself, and could list the reasons Lambert ran in clearly defined bullet-points with attached appendices if pushed. That kind of emotional literacy tended to happen when you were allowed to keep them unchecked in the first place. “Alright then. Come down here.” Lambert hopped up onto the window ledge and dropped effortlessly down to the ground. Aiden sighed, “You’re so melodramatic. You could have used the stairs.”

“I was worried you’d change your mind.”

“I’m not the one who jumped out a fucking window when someone asked for their hand,” he growled. “Wait… there’s one thing. I got your payment for that Gakrain.”

Lambert stared at the pouch of lintars deposited into his hand. “Please tell me you didn’t...” Despite his temper and his penchant to be a bit of an asshole, Lambert respected the Code. It was all he had. Witchers did not kill humans. Sure, he got into his fair share of scrapes when drunk, and he definitely lashed out in anger more times than he cared to admit, but Geralt's unwanted nickname had been enough of a warning. When a village turned hostile, he threw himself into his saddle and he rode away as quickly as he could. A bit of lost coin was better than wading through the blood and the guilt that came with it.

“No bloodshed. Little bit of blackmail. Low level School of Cat stuff.” He smirked, but Lambert dropped his head anyway. “You see, this is why I need you. You’re my moral compass. However will I see the error of my ways without my loyal Wolf to guide me? From the Path of Cat, to the Path of Wolf, hm?” 

“You’re so full of shit,” Lambert smiled and huffed a laugh. He shoved the money in one pocket, and pulled the ring out of his other. It sat there in his palm between them, and they both stared at it in silence. 

The other occupants of the house were stirring, and while Geralt and Eskel were happy to remain curled around each other in bed and give Lambert his privacy, Jaskier couldn’t help taking up a discreet post by the window, crouched down so only his eyes peeked over the top of the sill. He provided ongoing commentary. “They’re talking, I think… I think he’s asking again. _He’s, yes… he’s putting it on his chain._ Dear Melitele, urgh… this is too good. How are you two not--?” His nostrils flared and he caught it, the sharp spike of pheromones that accompanied arousal, and when he looked back to the bed, Geralt was arched up against Eskel’s lips, legs already wrapping about his waist. “Ahh, well… fair enough.”

Aiden took Lambert by the chin and tilted his head up, averting his eyes away from the silver ring slotted against his medallion. “Tell me, who do you love?”

“You.”

“Say it louder.”

“I love you, Aiden.”

“Mmm. They didn’t hear you in Redania.”

Lambert rolled his eyes and spread his arms, raising his voice in a loud bellow that definitely disturbed Marlene and Barnabas-Basil from their sleep. Hell, even old Vesemir probably pricked his ears in Kaer Morhen. “I love you, Aiden!” The Cat smirked, grabbed his Wolf by the scruff and hauled him in for a deep, hungry kiss. 

When they eventually came up for air, and Lambert’s lips were red and swollen, Aiden examined those fiery amber eyes with satisfaction. “Too fucking right,” he slung his arm around Lambert’s shoulders and steered him towards the house. “Show me the pantry. I’ve been tracking you for five days and I’m starving.”

***

Aiden and Lambert stayed for a couple of days. When Witchers got together, two things tended to happen; they drank and they trained. The drinking happened in the evening, which was all fine and Jaskier thoroughly enjoyed their company, but the training had to happen before the sun was fully up and Jaskier deeply missed the tranquility of his mornings. 

The unceasing clash of steel was only surpassed by the equally relentless shit-talking they did as they sparred their way around the courtyard. Without Vesemir to instill discipline, Lambert was happy to tear verbal chunks out of both his brothers, and even Aiden on occasion.

Lambert managed to smack the flat of his blade into the small of Eskel’s back, bringing their most recent bout to an end. He strutted away and whistled through his teeth in disapproval. “Getting slow, old man. Too much good food and wine making you soft. What would Papa Vesemir say?”

“All that fancy footwork and flipping will get you stabbed in the arse or knocked out of the air,” Eskel murmured. “Fight like a Wolf, not a Cat, and you might live ‘til next winter.”

“I take offence,” Aiden called over from where he was setting up with Geralt.

“Do I look like I give a shit?” Eskel growled in return and then gestured at Lambert to begin. The younger Wolf leapt at him with ferocity, curling and spinning his blade in a relentless assault. Sitting on a bench outside the front of the house, Jaskier observed a definite similarity between Lambert and Geralt’s style. He was at ease turning the hilt backwards in his hand to parry, before curling it around for a precise counter. His favoured move to set Eskel on his backfoot was a spinning, downward arc that took his feet off the ground to add momentum. Eskel punished him with a well-timed Aard that sent him careening across the courtyard into a heap on the floor.

“Shit…” Lambert wheezed and coughed as he rolled onto his back, the sword left next to him as he gripped his elbow and then his chest. “I forgot how much that fucking hurts.”

Eskel approached and held his hand down until it was accepted. “If you had both feet on the ground, you would have been able to counter with Quen.” Lambert just grunted and turned to limp his way to sit on the bench next to Jaskier, who wordlessly passed him a bottle of water.

Aiden circled now around Geralt. “The great White Wolf, well, I am truly honoured. More fluffy than fanged though, I’ve heard?”

Lambert snorted into his drink and Jaskier looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "Agree?"

"Nah," Lambert leaned back, arms spreading across the back of the bench, head cocked to the side as he watched the two circle. "Aiden doesn't realise how fucked he is, and I'm looking forward to watching him get his ass served to him." The grin that flourished across Lambert's face was contagious, and Jaskier found himself mirroring it as he leaned back to watch.

Geralt didn’t shit-talk. Never had. Never would. Teasing Eskel a little bit didn't count. He lifted a hand, beckoned with two fingers and met Aiden’s assault with brutal efficiency, his blade twisting and turning across his forearm to parry each swing. The School of Cat favoured speed, precision and momentum, and Aiden’s attacks were swift and furious. Geralt knew that disrupting that momentum was key to Aiden’s downfall, and he dissected it with several earth-shattering counters that put Aiden on the backfoot, cutting in before he could find his rhythm again. Three times Geralt knocked Aiden off balance, slapping him with the flat of his blade on the back of his neck, his thigh and then his backside to add to the insult. The Cat growled angrily each time, renewing his assault with building fervour, and each time Geralt clinically picked him apart. The fight ended when he slammed a boot into Aiden’s chest and pinned him to the floor, steel blade primed at his throat, and lips set in a thin line. “Conclusion?”

“Clearly I misheard,” Aiden murmured, tilting his head back as that blade pressed a little firmer, Geralt's upper lip flickering in the ghost of a snarl as he added a little more weight to his foot. Aiden did not return the aggression and permitted the steel to graze his skin. Submission. _That had to hurt._ Geralt stepped back, sword flicking back to align upwards along his forearm, his other hand offered down. For a tense moment, Aiden just looked at that extended palm, lips pressed tightly together. The air cleared finally when he took it and pulled himself up. Their eyes met, Aiden’s eyebrows quirking, before he slowly drew away and brushed down the seat of his trousers. “Well, breakfast?” The threat had been made, and Aiden accepted the terms. _Take care of him, or else._ Jaskier smiled knowingly at Geralt as he walked by, receiving only an impatient grunt and a gesture to follow into the house.

***

It was the final evening for Aiden and Lambert. They decided that morning to head out the following day in search of work, and so they sat around the fire drinking as was customary for a party of Witchers and their bard. Jaskier plucked at his lute thoughtfully in the companionable silence, Aiden tilted his head, “Come on then, Jaskier. Let’s hear it. You must have some new material for us. I still make a mint every time I walk into a tavern and that fucking ‘Toss a Coin’ shit is playing.”

Jaskier grinned and side-eyed Geralt. “Well, my anniversary dance was rudely interrupted by my own lungs, so I’ve been rather fixated on that recently.”

Eskel smirked. Oh, he knew this one. Geralt narrowed his eyes, suspicious, as Jaskier stood and began to strum away, leaning towards his snowy-haired Witcher in the way he did in bawdy taverns when singing about his ass and his eyes without other people actually knowing just _who_ he was singing about. 

> _“He slayed monsters with a silver sword,  
>  But he fell in love with a boorish bard,  
>  Kissed him on the neck and then I took him by the hand,  
>  Said, baby, I just wanna dance--  
>  With my pretty little Witcher wolf.  
>  You’re my pretty little Witcher wolf.  
>  Na, na, na, na… Witcher wolf.” *_

Geralt huffed and rolled his eyes, head falling back. “For fuck’s sake, Jaskier, I think I actually prefer ‘Toss a Coin’.” 

Lambert was rolling about in fits of laughter, tears brimming in his eyes. “Oh fuck, stop, you’re killin’ me.” And Aiden was snorting into his wine.

“Everyone’s a critic,” Jaskier sighed melodramatically, though clearly had achieved his aim of bringing levity to the final drink with their guests. “Right. Well, now that I come to think of it, I still want that dance. Maestro, if you please.” He ducked from his strap and passed the lute down to Eskel. “I want to hear that new one you’ve been working on when you think everyone’s out. You know, the angsty number with the jaunty tune.”

Eskel went slack-jawed, but Jaskier just wiggled his eyebrows and slipped his hands around one of Geralt’s biceps. “Up, up,” he kept tugging until his Wolf rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, setting his drink aside. “Don’t worry. No waltzes. I think something a bit more Skelligen will suffice.”

Jaskier swivelled around and rested his back against that broad chest, and craned his head around to press a kiss to Geralt’s stubbled jaw. Eskel strummed several chords as a brief warm up and then started up the rhythm of the song, accompanied by the light tap of his foot to keep time.

> _“Well, I’ve been deep in this sleeplessness,  
>  I don’t know why,  
>  Just can’t get away from myself,  
>  When I get back on my feet I’ll blow this open wide,  
>  And carry me home in good health,  
>  Gods, it’s been so long,  
>  Wide awake that I feel like someone else  
>  I miss the way that you saw me,  
>  Or maybe the way I saw myself,  
>  But I came back to you broken,  
>  And I’ve been away too long,  
>  I heard the words I’ve spoken,  
>  And everything comes out wrong,  
>  I just can’t get this together, can’t get where I belong,  
>  Who do you love?”_ **

Jaskier took Geralt’s hands and placed them on his hips as he shimmied back against him, swaying his shoulders in time with the rhythm Eskel set. It didn’t take Geralt long to surrender to that bright smile and the flutter of those baby blue eyes, and he joined after a light nuzzle beneath Jaskier’s ear. Broad shoulders dipped and swayed in time with the sinuous wriggles of the bard in his arms, and he laughed when Jaskier ducked under his arm in an elaborate twirl.

“Don’t know what you’re smirking at, Wolf,” Aiden put his drink aside and span to his feet, yanking Lambert up by the wrist. The goblet of wine in Lambert’s hand clattered to the floor and his back pressed flush against Aiden with a startled grunt. “Now I know those hips can move. So don’t hold back on me.” It took precisely twenty seconds for Lambert to dissolve into broad grins and quiet huffs of laughter as Aiden ground and teased against him, occasionally crooning along with Eskel and spinning his lover around.

“Who do you love, Geralt?” Jaskier asked quietly, his smile broad as Eskel broke into his chorus.

“You and Eskel, Jaskier. ‘Til the end.”

“Right answer.” He turned and sank gratefully into the kiss awaiting him.

Four hundred years from that night, two Witchers would lay down beneath the stars in the Valley of Flowers with their bard and close their eyes for the last time; their hands wound together and their hearts at peace. Because no Witcher has ever died in his bed, but some have died happy.

* * *

_From fable to fumble, from stable to stumble,  
Never more,  
I’ll say goodbye to my demons,  
And all my break evens, ever yours,  
I won’t come back to you broken,  
I won’t stay away long.  
Everything goes quiet,  
It’s like I just can’t move,  
You say I might as well try it,  
There’s nothing left to lose,  
Nothing will change if you never choose._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * If you sang this with the cadence of Ed Sheeran's "Galway Girl", you were on point.
> 
> ** This is "Who do you love?" by Marianas Trench. Chose this as the ending song because (a) what an amazing band, and (b) it's about choosing to make yourself a better person for the people you love. I think the Witchers have managed to do that for Jaskier (with some work still to go). 
> 
> So, we have come to the end, my friends, and I made sure it was the fluffiest of fluff just for you. What a ride! So many commenters to thank - Sophist, round_robin, RavenSilverwolf, kaoshie, ActuallyAMenace, Izzie_Armstrong, ryokoyuy, the mysterious "K", LyssGreen, ashesashesashes and so many more. If I haven't mentioned you, then I still value you (hence I try reply to every comment), but it's stupid o'clock on the ol' sceptered isle right now. Thank you for your support, and your ideas. As soon as I figure out how to hyperlink your names, I will, because I know many of you write also.
> 
> I have been asked for my 'Tumblr' a lot, so I dug out my one from many years ago: https://rawrkin.tumblr.com/


	29. Epilogue [+ SFW Painting]

Eskel gazed into his wardrobe and squinted in confusion. _No clean shirts._ He grabbed one of Geralt’s, and traipsed down the stairs; Barnabas-Basil was in the kitchen. “Barnabas, is there a problem with the laundry system? We can hire some more staff if you need them.”

The majordomo tilted his head, perplexed. “No, sir. Everything that arrives is washed and returned to you on the same day.”

“Huh, right,” Eskel rubbed his chin and headed outside onto the balcony, with a mug of steaming mead, towards the soft melody of lute music. As usual, Jaskier was perched precariously on the railings, gazing out across the expanse of their grounds and the sprawling valley beyond. “Morning.”

“Good morning, my love,” Jaskier turned those bright blue eyes onto Eskel, and tilted his head in request for a kiss; Eskel obliged, and then propped his rear against the railings.

“Are you - uh, having trouble with the laundry?”

“As it so happens, _yes._ My favourite green doublet - you know, the one I wore for our wedding - has gone missing, along with my sapphire blue one and a rather nice violet number. I assumed that perhaps they were in for repair.”

“Hmm. No. I just spoke to Barnabas-Basil, he says everything's up-to-date,” he sipped his mead and gazed out into the nearest field; he could see a shock of white hair milling around the fruiting trees. “Come to think of it, Geralt’s clothes were all there. Seems we have a mystery on our hands.” He tugged idly at the white linen number he’d _borrowed._

Clothes weren’t the only thing going missing; blankets and bedding too - not clean, slightly used - with easily preserved food from the larder, an entire crate of wine and a couple of rugs from the bedroom. 

As the week progressed, Eskel also noticed something a little off about Geralt. He was more _industrious_ ; energetic to the point of mania. His scent was a little peculiar. Not necessarily unusual; his heat would begin soon and he always began to smell a little different - more enticing - as his hormones shifted in preparation. It usually meant he wanted more embraces and affection, but not this time. He was _focused_ and independent. A wagon of goods arrived from Oxenfurt one morning, and he practically tackled Eskel to the floor in his haste to be the one to sign for and unload it, including a huge, square object with a cover thrown over the top. 

Eskel didn’t see where half the items went.

A week and a half later, Geralt was nowhere to be found. He didn’t turn up for dinner - not in itself unusual given his penchant for becoming distracted by projects - but then he wasn’t there for bed either. “Jaskier, we need to go and find him. Something might be wrong.” Between the two of them, they managed to pick his scent up in the courtyard outside, and followed it to one of the newly renovated barns on the outskirts of the main estate. The door stood ajar, and they slipped inside. Geralt was definitely there; arenaria and spring rains, mixed with the sharper scent of wine, and the doughy scent of pure happiness. _Well, that was a relief._

“Geralt?” Eskel called into the darkness, and then he heard the sound of shuffling on one of the higher levels.

“Up here," said a low, gravelly voice.

With Jaskier in the lead, they climbed up the ladder into the hayloft and then both stood at the edge staring mutely. Geralt was sprawled in the middle of a huge pile of pillows and bedding in a rough, comfortable circle. Woven through were glimmers of colour - sapphire, violet, forest green and grey - and Geralt had a bottle of wine open in one hand, and a biscuit in the other. He had his wolf school armour carefully laid out to the left, along with both of his swords, one of Roach’s old harnesses, an ornate trophy knife given to him by Lambert and an old book on insectoids given to him by Vesemir. It all sat on a foundation of soft fur rugs, one of which had travelled all the way from their bedroom in Oxenfurt.

“Oh - oh, I know what this is,” Jaskier whispered to Eskel in absolute wonder. “Eskel, this is a nest.” His chest felt ready to burst with sheer delight. Geralt had _never_ nested. _Ever._ He’d never felt settled or safe enough to do so, and so seemed to have sidelined it as an indulgence he could not afford, or was not allowed. Jaskier had never questioned or pushed it, pigeonholing it as yet another instinct that the mutations had dampened or destroyed. 

But here, after several years in their home in Corvo Bianco, the instinct had finally bubbled to the surface and won out. Geralt had foraged for all the things that made him feel comfortable and happy - amusingly enough, that also included an entire _crate_ of wine - and built himself a nest as meticulously organised as the running of the estate.

Geralt cast Jaskier a swift, baleful glance. “It’s not. Witchers don’t nest.” 

Eskel opened his mouth to say something, then clicked it shut. _What was the proper etiquette here?_ He glanced at Jaskier for guidance. “What do we - ?”

Jaskier patted Eskel's arm, and cleared his throat. “Geralt, may we come and sit with you?”

A low, rumbling growl, and then Geralt knocked back a swig of wine. “Yes. Take your boots off.” He was gazing intently at something currently out of their eye-line, and didn’t look at them as he spoke. 

“Of course, of course.” With their boots shed at the edge of the hayloft, Eskel and Jaskier climbed into the nest on either side of Geralt, who placed a bottle of wine in each of their laps and started purring. _Very loudly._ Eskel lifted his eyes to follow Geralt’s and met his own staring right back.

“The painting. From Oxenfurt.” 

Geralt hummed. “I don’t know why. I wanted it near.”

“Oh, you soppy wolf,” Jaskier grinned into the neck of his wine bottle. “You wanted to be surrounded by all of your favourite things.”

“Which apparently includes all the shirts I own,” Eskel grumbled, picking at the arm of one that was hanging out from a bundle of blankets. “Any reason you built it in here and not in our bedroom? Or - ?”

“Hmm,” Geralt swigged another mouthful of wine and leaned back, legs kicking out over the end of the nest. “Didn’t want to be in the way. Wasn’t sure why I was doing it.”

“Well, now that you’ve settled, it seems a shame to move it, but you do realise that this will be where you want to - and, given there are workers that - ,” Jaskier rubbed the back of his head. “Would you be against moving it into the house?”

Geralt ran his hands over the pile of blankets and clothes, all saturated with the scents of the two men either side of him; he glanced down at the trinkets he _knew_ he couldn’t be without, and then finally at the painting propped up against the barn wall. _These things didn’t belong in a damp barn._ “We can move it,” he settled lower. “Tomorrow.” Two big arms stretched and looped around the shoulders of his two husbands; they fell into place against him and all three fell asleep gazing at their wedding picture.

***

“Up a bit - no, too much - back down - down a bit more - back up.”

“ _Jaskier,”_ Geralt growled. “It’s in exactly the same place as when we started.”

Eskel smirked from the other side of the painting. It wasn’t heavy, but cumbersome, and neither of them wanted to be the one to damage it, so this was a two-Witcher job. They'd decided to hang it in the drawing room downstairs, even though Geralt’s nest had been carefully moved into the bedroom; the painting deserved centre stage.

“Ahh, right there,” Jaskier lifted his hands. “Barnabas, do you agree?”

“Yes, sir.” The majordomo stood at the bard’s side, hands folded behind his back, as the two Witchers hammered the nails in place and then hung the painting reverently upon the wall.

They stepped back to admire it. Geralt hummed and glanced between the painting and the Witcher at his side. Eskel narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Just thinking,” Geralt tensed - Jaskier should have known mischief was afoot from that very moment - and reached out to pat Eskel on the stomach. “I definitely prefer your fuller figure.” And then he was gone; sprinting into the foyer and further into the house. Eskel was momentarily stunned, hands clasping to his abdomen, only to growl and dash off in pursuit when his senses returned.

“An invitation came through for another ball, sir,” Barnabas didn’t even flinch at the sound of something heavy hitting the floor in the room above. “Shall I turn it down?”

“No, we best attend this one,” Jaskier tilted his head as something wooden splintered following a delighted yelp. “If we turn down too many, we become a statement piece for any we do decide to turn up to.”

Heavy footfalls crossed the landing, and the bedroom door almost fell off its hinges. Something made of glass or porcelain - either way, expensive - broke next. Jaskier sighed. “I’ll go do some damage control. Have a good afternoon, Barnabas.” The bard headed off in search of his two boisterous Witchers.

The majordomo stood before the painting for a moment longer, his head tilted to the side and his hands clasped behind his back. His peers had mocked him at first; the very idea that a Witcher should hold and manage an estate was truly absurd, but an estate that had fallen into ruin and disrepair? They’d all said Corvo Bianco would be masterless and barren within the year. Barnabas had just been unlucky - again. 

As the years passed and the profits rose, Barnabas’ masters proved their critics wrong. They were noble and fair - staff turnover was next to nothing - hardworking and modest - there wasn’t a project on the entire estate they hadn’t been personally involved in, and, above all, they were devoted to each other. There was a purity to their love that didn’t exist inside the stuffy courts of the titled nobility, and as the first buds of spring peeked tentatively from the ground, that love only became more pronounced. Master Geralt would be indisposed, but his partners would dote on him from dawn until dusk, and he would emerge a happy, contented man.

Barnabas _wasn’t_ unlucky. Far from it. He believed himself to be the most blessed majordomo in the valley.

* * *

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**Painted by the brilliant Márcia Monteiro**  
[Wannastayugly on Tumblr.](https://wannastayugly.tumblr.com/)  
[@thebardjaskier on Twitter.](https://twitter.com/thebardjaskier)  
A higher quality version can be found on Twitter.

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* * *


	30. Goodbye until Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fanwork created by the lovely Cylin. Please go "Like" and "Reblog" [here.](https://cylin-aka-ankamo.tumblr.com/post/628073513219129345/fanart-of-a-scene-that-stuck-with-me-from)
> 
> Based on the final scene in Chapter 3 when Eskel heads back out on the Path alone.


End file.
